Faith in Mount Fuji: The Rise of Independent Religion in Early Modern Japan 9780824890438

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FAITH IN MOUNT FUJI

FAITH IN MOUNT FUJI The Rise of Independent Religion in Early Modern Japan

Janine Anderson Sawada

University of Hawai‘i Press Honolulu

© 2022 University of Hawai‘i Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America 26 25 24 23 22 21    6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Sawada, Janine Anderson, author. Title: Faith in Mount Fuji : the rise of independent religion in early modern Japan / Janine Anderson Sawada. Description: Honolulu : University of Hawai‘i Press, 2021. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021038761 | ISBN 9780824887889 (cloth) | ISBN 9780824890438 (pdf) | ISBN 9780824890445 (epub) | ISBN 9780824890452 (kindle edition) Subjects: LCSH: Mountain worship—Japan—Fuji, Mount. | Fuji, Mount (Japan)—Religious life and customs. Classification: LCC BL2211.M6 S29 2021 | DDC 299.5/6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021038761 Cover art: Pilgrims on the slope of Mount Fuji, Shibata Zeshin, 1880. ©The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved. University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on acid-free paper and meet the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources.

For Emi and Xavi

Contents

Acknowledgments Conventions Introduction: The Study of the People’s Religions Chapter One

Changing Pilgrimage Culture at Mount Fuji Chapter Two

Ritual Appropriation of the Mountain Chapter Three

God, Life Processes, and the New Age Chapter Four

The Appeal for Economy in Ritual Life Chapter Five

ix xiii 1 27 61 92 115

Jikigyō Miroku’s Final Austerity

135

Conclusion

156

Glossary of Japanese and Chinese Characters

159

Abbreviations

169

Notes

171

Bibliography

237

Index

263

Color plates follow page

46

Acknowledgments

It was clear to me from my first foray into the study of Mount Fuji religious groups that worship of this mountain lent itself to the development among its practitioners of a distinctive and in some cases critical perspective on the socioreligious environment of their time. Further research into the origins and history of Fujikō promised to be a rewarding endeavor, but after I began to delve into the fragmentary and often cryptic records associated with the formative stages of this movement in the seventeenth century, I realized that a comprehensive analysis of the mature organization and the associated pilgrimage activities that took shape in the second half of the Edo period would require another book, if not several. I entrust to others the rest of this story—that is, the social history, practices, and ideas of the various Fuji groups that spread in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It is in these localized networks of devotional activity, centered not only on the well-known Mount Fuji but also on the many other revered sites and deities that became popular in the early modern period, that the most creative and perhaps influential variegations of Japanese religious life of the time may be found. I have received many years of assistance from colleagues, institutions, friends, and family while researching and writing this book. I wish to thank especially Miyazaki Fumiko, who helped me gain access to critical research materials and repeatedly shared with me her scholarly insights into Fuji religious matters. I am indebted to the devoted scholar of Fujikō and Fujidō, Okada Hiroshi, who went out of his way to ensure my acquisition of essential primary texts. I was also fortunate to be able to consult with the late Shirosaki Yōko, a scholar and committed Fuji practitioner, before her untimely demise. My heartfelt thanks to two anonymous readers for the University of Hawai‘i Press who invested themselves unstintingly in assessing the book manuscript and in identifying specific ways in which I could improve it. I am profoundly grateful to several other colleagues who generously offered to read and give me feedback on particular chapter drafts, including Talia Andrei, Andrew Bernstein, Caleb S. Carter, Andrea Castiglioni, R. Keller Kimbrough, Miyazaki Fumiko, ix

x  Acknowledgments

Finnian Moore-Gerety, Jason A. Protass, and Ian Reader. Needless to say, the remaining errors and defects in this book are entirely my responsibility. My thinking about the issues treated in this study has also benefited from interactions over the years with Ryūichi Abé, Barbara Ambros, Asano Miwako, John Breen, H. Byron Earhart, James Dobbins, Hank Glassman, Helen Hardacre, Hayashi Makoto, Richard Jaffe, Kanda Hideo, Regan Murphy Kao, Trent Maxey, Levi McLaughlin, Takashi Miura, Jeffrey Moser, Gil Raz, Gaynor Sekimori, Dominic Steavu, Jacqueline I. Stone, Suzuki Masataka, Sarah Thal, and Yokoyama Toshio. A special word of thanks to D. Max Moerman for repeatedly sharing his research materials and his insights into Japanese religious culture with me; and to Talia Andrei, who shared her expertise on pilgrimage mandalas and helped me gain critical access to high-quality digital versions of Fuji sankei mandara. I also received helpful suggestions from the participants and audiences of the many conference sessions, workshops, and invited talks in which I presented preliminary versions of sections of the book, including the European Association for Japanese Studies; the Society for the Study of Japanese Religions; Amherst College; Princeton University; the Reischauer Institute of Japanese Studies at Harvard University; the Cogut Institute for the Humanities at Brown University; the Donald Keene Center of Japanese Culture at Columbia University; the Johns Hopkins University; the University of California, Santa Barbara; and the Buddhist Geoaesthetics Conference at Brown University. I am deeply obliged to the Fujisan Myūjiamu (Fujiyoshida Minzoku Hakubutsukan) and the Fujisan Hongū Sengen Taisha for providing me with access to the artwork that is reproduced in the book illustrations; and to the Kyōdo Shiryōkan of Kawaguchi City Bunkazai Sentā and the Bunka Shinkōka Kenshi Hensan-han of Mie Prefecture’s Kankyō Seikatsu-bu for allowing me to reprint images of primary texts from their collections. I also gratefully acknowledge the assistance that I received during the early stages of my research for this book from the University of Iowa Arts and Humanities Initiative, the Association for Asian Studies Northeast Asia Council, and the Cogut Institute for the Humanities and the Humanities Research Fund of Brown University. Many thanks as well to Yokoyama Toshio for arranging my affiliation with the Kyoto University Institute for Research in Humanities during my research in Japan, to Sherry Fowler for illuminating the logistics of acquiring permission for image reproduction, and to Brown University Library for helping me with high-resolution image scanning. In addition, I wish to thank Masanori and Chikayo Yamagishi for graciously facilitating my travel to Mount Fuji sites, Xavi Sawada for his wise assistance with the bibliography, and Ryoichiro Sawada for refining my epistolary Japanese and serving as a sounding board in countless

Acknowledgments  xi

conversations about Fuji matters. I am especially indebted to Stephanie Chun, my editor at the University of Hawai‘i Press, for her unswerving support and care throughout the process of bringing this book to publication. My colleagues at Brown University offered me steady encouragement and help during the years in which I worked on this book, especially Mark S. Cladis, Susan Ashbrook Harvey, Harold D. Roth, Nicole L. Vadnais, and Tina Creamer. Special thanks to my fellow travelers from the heartland, James L. Fitzgerald and Palmira Brummett, for providing me with respite from the toils of the academy on innumerable occasions, and to Morten Schlütter, Frederick M. Smith, and Jason A. Protass for their steady friendship and collegiality. With the publication of this book I wish to mark, however imperfectly, my gratitude to my family, whose existence is more precious than ever during these unusual times. I thank Loredana Anderson-Tirro and Michela Anderson for sustaining me with their affection and joie de vivre over the years. I am most grateful to Emi Sawada and Xavi Sawada, my guiding lights, for sharing their lives with me, and to Ryoichiro Sawada, for his lifelong patience and love.

Conventions

Japanese and Chinese names appear in the customary order, with the surname first. As a rule I use the name by which the person is best known, with alternatives supplied in the glossary or notes. After the first mention, Japanese individuals who died before the Meiji Restoration of 1868 are identified by their personal, literary, or religious names, and later figures by their surnames, following conventional practice. Age is reckoned based on the traditional Japanese system, which usually adds one year to the Western count. Dates prior to January 1, 1873, when the solar calendar came into use in Japan, are identified by era name, followed by the lunar month and day, with the Gregorian calendar year supplied as appropriate. For example, Genroku 1.10.13 indicates the thirteenth day of the tenth lunar month in the first year of the Genroku era (1688). Common Japanese place-names, such as Tokyo, Kyoto, and Kyushu, and well-known proper nouns and terms, such as Shinto and Mahayana, appear without macrons or diacritics. Translations are by the author except where noted. Historical periods mentioned in the text are listed below. “Late medieval” generally refers to the years encompassed by the Muromachi and AzuchiMomoyama periods. “Early modern” indicates the Tokugawa period, while “modern” signifies the Meiji period and beyond. Nara 710–784 Heian 794–1185 Kamakura 1185–1333 Muromachi 1392–1573 Sengoku (Warring States) 1477–1573 Azuchi-Momoyama 1573–1598 Tokugawa (Edo) 1600–1867 Bakumatsu 1853–1867 Meiji 1868–1912 Taishō 1912–1926 Shōwa 1926–1989 xiii

Map 1.  The provinces of early modern Japan. Reproduced with permission from Early Modern Japanese Literature: An Anthology, 1600–1900, ed. Haruo Shirane.

Introduction The Study of the People’s Religions

In the summer of 1733 a peddler from Edo strapped a wooden cabinet on his back and climbed to a rocky promontory high up on Mount Fuji. The man was dressed in a simple white garment and had been carrying out ascetic disciplines dedicated to the god of Mount Fuji for most of his sixty-three years. He ensconced himself inside the small closet, crossed his legs in a version of the lotus position, and over a period of a month starved himself to death. Reports of this remarkable event allegedly circulated soon afterward in the streets of the shogunal capital, and by some accounts triggered the expansion of a mass movement inspired by the man’s teaching of oneness with the mountain. Its followers reportedly numbered ten thousand or more by the early nineteenth century. This book offers an interpretation of the religious culture and historical circumstances in which this dramatic act of suicide was embedded. Religious activities associated with Mount Fuji were nothing new in the Edo (Tokugawa) period (1600–1867); reverence for Japan’s greatest mountain dates to the earliest stages of the country’s history. It was not until the early modern period, however, that devotion and pilgrimage to Mount Fuji took root on a broad scale among villagers and townspeople in eastern Japan, eventually leading to the establishment of a network of lay societies or kō. In their earliest phase, these groups, later collectively called Fujikō, took inspiration from the life story of a wandering ascetic called Kakugyō Tōbutsu (1541?–1646), who is believed to have performed harsh austerities in the vicinity of the mountain during the last years of the war-torn medieval period and the early decades of the new Tokugawa order.1 Among his later followers the person who first articulated the Fuji religious teachings in extended discursive form was Jikigyō Miroku (1671–1733), the itinerant merchant who ended his life on the mountain as described above. Modern Japanese scholars have written extensively on the legend of Kakugyō and the biography of Jikigyō, and especially on the teachings and activities of later Fuji religious leaders.2 European and American scholars have also produced several worthy studies of aspects of Fujikō, although again these 1

2  Introduction

publications tend to emphasize the movement’s elaborations in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.3 The views and practices of the group’s members during its formative period (before Jikigyō Miroku’s time) are not well documented and have been considered inchoate antecedents of the full-fledged movement, not susceptible to sustained analysis. The later movement, however, was impressive in terms of its membership numbers and the intellectual sophistication of its teachings, not to mention the hints of political awareness in its members’ activities and writings. In the early nineteenth century Fujikō spread widely among the working classes of Edo; Fujidō (a branch of the movement whose members identified themselves closely with the teachings of Jikigyō Miroku) energetically expanded its following in the rural areas of central and eastern Japan as well. The Tokugawa authorities viewed the multiplication of these unauthorized groupings with increasing alarm and issued several edicts banning their activities in Edo, culminating in a severe suppression in 1849. In comparison with other mountain devotional phenomena of the time, the Fuji movement stands out for these doctrinal, organizational, and political developments, and its later history has justifiably attracted scholarly attention. However, the net effect of the focus on later Fujikō has been to obscure the significance of its earlier history and religious heritage. The emergence of the new Fuji devotionalism inspired by Kakugyō Tōbutsu in the seventeenth century is important because it anticipated a broader trend in early modern Japan in which religious life centered on revered sites, notably mountains, was transformed by the interests of ordinary people who grouped together of their own accord to visit these sites and perform devotions to the associated deities.4 In recent years in-depth studies of these pilgrimage centers have greatly upgraded our understanding of the scope and impact of this type of site-based religion in the Tokugawa period and beyond.5 This book does not offer a comprehensive account along these lines of Mount Fuji pilgrimage institutions as they developed in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, but it aims nonetheless to contribute to our ongoing reconceptualization of Tokugawa religious life as neither a string of protomodern episodes nor a repository of unchanging folk tradition. The early history of the Fuji community suggests rather that the popular religious movements of early modern Japan are best viewed as part of a dynamic process in which reconfigured forms of practice and thought periodically inspired the formation of grassroots lay associations. Some of these organizations survived the disruptions of identity compelled by the religion policies that were implemented in Japan in the aftermath of the Meiji Restoration of 1868, and some of their modern remnants in turn were ordained “new religions.” But Fujikō, which originated at the very outset of the Tokugawa

Study of People’s Religions   3

period, was already a prototype of these later groups.6 Like all emerging religions it drew heavily on existing matrices of ideas and practices—in this case, mountain ascetic traditions, Buddhist and native notions of deity, prevalent moral values (often called “Confucian”), and correlative cosmological lore. However, in its overall religious ideology and sociopolitical vision the Fuji movement was an original—a new religion of its time. Fujikō is not usually characterized as a new religion, however, but as a popular or “people’s religion” (minshū shūkyō). What is the logic behind this differential nomenclature? Shimazono Susumu once astutely observed that the question of whether to consider Fujikō a new religion constitutes an important dividing line in the field.7 The variation in usage of the terms “new religion” and “popular religion” deserves consideration because it reflects more broadly on how the study of Tokugawa religious history has been structured in modern times. In this introductory chapter I accordingly review the evolution of these interrelated categories in modern Japanese religious studies and the concomitant history of interpretation of the Fuji movement as a minshū shūkyō before turning to the substance of this group’s historical culture in the main body of the book.

The Language of Heterodoxy and the History of Popular Religions The adoption in the Meiji period (1868–1912) of the Japanese compound “shūkyō” to render the English term “religion” and the subsequent development of related concepts, such as “folk religion” and “new religions,” have received considerable attention in modern scholarship.8 My concern here is primarily with the minshū shūkyō branch of this family tree and its impact on the study of early modern Japanese religious life. “Minshū shūkyō” is a distinctive phrase used in modern Japanese scholarship to refer to religious movements that developed outside established sects, temples, or shrines, especially in the late Tokugawa and early Meiji periods, and that in most cases produced written records of their teachings and practices.9 The term took hold in postwar academic writing partly in response to prevalent ways of thinking about the new religions that were burgeoning in Japan at the time, hence a few remarks about the latter conception are in order before we take up the minshū shūkyō construct itself. Newness is not usually a positive marker when it comes to religion. On the face of it, the English phrase “new religion” and the corresponding Japanese “shinshūkyō” are relative terms that simply indicate the presence of innovative elements in the designated religious phenomenon vis-à-vis what came before. In the Japanese case, during the early twentieth century some groups referred

4  Introduction

positively to themselves as new religions, suggesting that they possessed a forward-looking energy suited to the modern era, in contrast to the long-established Buddhist, Confucian, and Shinto traditions of Japan.10 Generally, however, when used in the etic mode the term “new religion” indicates a set of practices and ideas that the observer considers to have deviated from a putative classic system. Even if the newer phenomenon conforms or overlaps in many ways with its parent traditions (as most new religions do), the label “new” signals qualities that, while potentially exciting to some because they are novel and up to date, for the same reason are viewed as unproven and inauthentic by upholders of the past models.11 One scholar of new religions in North America and Europe has argued along these lines that the real import of the term “new religion” is that “from the perspective of the dominant religious community” the groups in question are “not just different, but unacceptably different.”12 What defines all new religions in this view is that they are outside the religious establishment and thus (especially in their early phases) regarded with suspicion.13 The emerging Japanese lexicon for new religions in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries seems to support this contention. The terms that eventually came into common use, “shinkō shūkyō” and “shinshūkyō,” in effect designated the successors to unaffiliated or unauthorized groups that had earlier been identified by a range of other descriptors. During the Tokugawa period a number of religious communities survived and even thrived for periods of time outside the established temples and shrines, Confucian academies, and other recognized systems of practice (such as Yoshida Shinto or Onmyōdō), evading control or outright suppression by the shogunate and domains. In the face of the Meiji drive to centralize Japanese religious activities, these unofficial groups disbanded, were absorbed into the sectarian Buddhist establishment, or, most commonly, were compelled to re-create themselves under the aegis of the state’s sect Shinto system (kyōha Shintō). Several of these associations eventually came to be called “new religions.” A number of these supposedly novel religions, in other words, were continuous with groups that Tokugawa officials and educated elites had dubbed “heterodoxies” (itan), “newfangled heterodox teachings” (shingi ihō), or in some cases “suspicious” or “indecent” rituals (inshi). These expressions were stock labels for unapproved religious practices before the modern period. During Chōshū’s campaign against undesirable religious activity in the Tenpō era (1831–1845), for example, “inshi” (which in modern Japanese ranges in meaning from worship of dubious deities to obscene rituals) was used to indicate religious practice systems or institutions that were not officially listed in the domain’s public register.14 The lack of specificity of the notion encouraged a sustained debate between local

Study of People’s Religions   5

nativist and Confucian-minded scholars over which religious phenomena indeed deserved the label.15 It should be noted that in early modern times these kinds of polemics against unaccepted religious groups did not usually stress the demonic or evil nature of their ideas so much as their members’ untethered social or economic conduct—spheres of activity that at the time were not clearly distinguished from what would come to be called “religion.” Doctrines and dogmas, which were at the heart of the early Christian heresy disputes, were little in evidence in Tokugawa critiques of unauthorized religious groups, including the early new religions. The offenders were more often described as acting and appearing in ways that transgressed the norm. A common theme in the official rhetoric is that the people in question had a deceptive or suspicious appearance: they were pretending to be what they were not—in other words, purveyors of a proper religious lineage or community. Routine descriptors in the Edo city ordinances are magirawashiki (misleading, confusing, deceptive), furachi (illegal, lawless, illicit), and iyō (strange in appearance).16 The targeted practitioners come across more as frauds than as heretics. The rhetoric against undesirable religious practices grew more intense and widespread during the Meiji period, when “inshi” was regularly coupled in discourse with “jakyō”—evil or harmful teachings—a term that had long been used in Buddhist writings to designate mistaken teachings in general, but that in the Tokugawa period became a routine epithet for specific outlawed groups, notably Christianity. Jason Josephson renders “ jakyō” by the well-known Christian term “heresy” and argues with verve that a broad conception of heresy operated in premodern Japan and that it was informed especially by notions of the demonic.17 Yet for much of the Tokugawa period locutions for types of religion and thought considered beyond the pale relied more consistently on derivatives of the character i—“different” or “ deviant” (as in itan, ihō, igaku, iyō, or in reference to a group, ishū). Moreover, unlike the term “jakyō” in Japanese, the thrust of the term “heresy” in the European Christian context is a conception that arises from within the original theology but distorts it, as opposed to an idea that is perceived to be separate or foreign in origin, as in the premodern Japanese designation of unauthorized religious teachings. In any event, it was only after the Restoration that the compound phrase “inshi jakyō” seems to have gained purchase as a generic demarcator of religious deviancy on a broad scale. In late Meiji public discourse “indecent rituals and evil teachings” was a set phrase for religious groups that were deemed to have contravened the state’s sect Shinto parameters or resisted “civilization and enlightenment” values.18 During the late nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century the lexicon for nonestablished religious groups further expanded to include “quasireligious groups,” “pseudoreligions,” and

6  Introduction

“imitation religions” (shūkyō ruiji dantai, ruiji shūkyō, and giji shūkyō, respectively). All of these rubrics, like the earlier Tokugawa language of heterodoxy, signified illicit organizations, activities, or individuals—though the newer vocabulary was more polemical in tone. As Murakami Shigeyoshi once remarked, before and during the war such terms “did not just mean recently established religions; they came to mean vulgar religions that were outside the State Shinto system—imitation religions, suspicious religions.”19 After Japan’s defeat in 1945, when limits on independent religious activity were suddenly removed, new organizations multiplied rapidly and the vaguely disparaging phrase “newly arisen religion” (shinkō shūkyō) came into use as an umbrella term for both the postwar groups and the earlier “imitation” religions, although it was eventually superseded in academic discourse by the presumably value-neutral “new religion” (shinshūkyō).20 However, the language of newness used to tag spontaneous religious groupings continued to shape public perceptions of them as somehow undesirable or distasteful.21 Even today in certain contexts more or less ambivalence is incorporated in seemingly neutral expressions used to refer to nonestablished groups.22 The minshū shūkyō branch in this genealogy of identifiers, in contrast, carries relatively positive connotations. The idea of a “religion of the people” marks a reconceptualization of Japan’s cultural heritage that drove both Japanese and Western scholarly interpretations of independent or unauthorized religions of the Tokugawa and Meiji periods (including Fujikō) until fairly recently. A key factor in the development of this concept was the debate over modernization. Virtually all treatments of new religious movements in Japan have been premised on the notion that they date at the earliest from the last decades of the Edo period; the correlation with modernity is uncontested.23 The authors of the first English-language studies of the Japanese new religions not coincidentally completed their work in the late fifties and sixties, when international interest in Japanese modernization was at its height.24 In 1963 Clark B. Offner and Henry Van Straelen published a study of Japanese religious groups that began to appear in the early nineteenth century and simply called them “modern religions.”25 In 1967 H. Neill McFarland acknowledged in a more nuanced manner in his Rush Hour of the Gods that “one must decide somewhat arbitrarily at what juncture in Japanese history the story of the New Religions really begins.”26 He selected the beginning of the Edo period as his own starting point, reasoning that the rise of the Japanese new religions was fostered by social changes that commenced in the early seventeenth century.27 Yet McFarland also assumed that social unrest provoked by political and economic instability was a necessary condition for the appearance of new religious movements (a version of deprivation theory), and

Study of People’s Religions   7

was therefore constrained to date the actual emergence of the Japanese groups to a time that was tangibly marked by such agitation.28 In the final analysis he reiterated the consensus that the last decades of the Tokugawa period were the most “conducive to the development of the New Religions” and identified Tenrikyō, which took shape in the 1830s, as the oldest of the new religions.29 McFarland’s logic mirrored that of the Japanese scholarship on which he drew.30 The idea that the “popular religious movements” (which he took to be tributary to the new religions) first appeared in the nineteenth century took inspiration from a particular Japanese view of modernization and of the role of popular religion in it. Today the phrase “popular religion” is often used in international academic discourse to mean religious customs and ideas commonly shared in a society; it may also overlap in meaning with the term “folk religion” insofar as the phenomenon in question is not identified with a written tradition or formal social organization.31 But Japanese historians, especially those writing in the aftermath of the Pacific War, have often used minshū shūkyō more narrowly to denote organized religious groups of the nineteenth (and in some cases early twentieth) century. In English the thrust of their usage not infrequently verges on a Marxian “religion of the people.” Marxist theory in fact dominated Japanese social thought and economic history in the Taishō (1912–1926) and the early Shōwa (1926–1989) eras, but during the 1930s Max Weber’s ideas about modernization gained traction as an alternative approach to Japanese history. One of the central ideas in Weber’s theory of economic development in the Western context is the Protestant ethic of the “calling”—a drive to work diligently that is fueled by “salvation anxiety” and yet involves a rational approach to life conduct, rather than reliance on magical conceptions.32 Japanese scholars of the time began to debate the possibility of a native equivalent to the Weberian paradigm—that is, a special aspect of society and culture that might have fostered the development of industrial capitalism in Japan.33 In 1941, for example, the economic historian Naitō Kanji argued that the religious culture of the Ōmi merchants, who were overwhelmingly True Pure Land Buddhist, was a premodern Japanese parallel to ascetic Protestantism.34 But it was not until after the Pacific War that the quest for the Japanese spirit of capitalism went into high gear. During the early to mid-twentieth century many Japanese identified modernization with all the paradigmatic qualities of the good society that had supposedly been achieved in the West: democracy, industrialization, societal organization, and (most important for our purposes) “the liberation of religion from magic residuals.”35 Ōtsuka Hisao, the doyen of Weberian theory in Japan at the time, argued that the spiritual or inner dimension of human society played a

8  Introduction

key role in modern capitalist development. By arguing along these lines he and other modernists were attempting to redress what they considered the deficiencies of orthodox historical materialism. Ōtsuka insisted that the true spirit of capitalism was rooted not in “acquisitive greed” but rather in a “rational and organizational” mentality that approached work as a devotional responsibility. This way of thinking could be based only on a disciplined individualism, in his reading of Weber; autonomous individuals needed to carry forward the spirit of capitalism and thereby enable the transformation of postwar Japanese society as a whole.36 Ultimately, however, Ōtsuka concluded that Japan had not succeeded in creating a modern civil society, because in contrast, for example, to the rural middle classes of seventeenth-century England, who had become authentic actors of modern society by exercising their subjectivity and democratic character, Japanese peasants had utterly failed to fulfill their responsibility in this regard. The failure stemmed from their lack of personal independence, rationality, and social consciousness in the economic sphere. Ōtsuka blamed the traditional value system for stifling people’s individuality and initiative in this regard, and thereby impeding the emergence of the “modern human type” that he felt was needed in postwar Japan.37 Moreover, although other Japanese scholars of the time, inspired by the earlier work of Naramoto Tatsuya and Maruyama Masao, initially maintained that modern thought had indeed been anticipated in the intellectual culture of Tokugawa Japan, after the war Maruyama himself concluded that the concept of individual freedom had never taken hold in Japan. The Japanese people had failed to develop any inner drive for political autonomy.38 The rising interest in popular Tokugawa thought and religion among scholars in the 1950s was a reaction to these rather grim views of the Japanese capacity for self-determination. The premise of modernization theory, that Japan’s path to modernity was a version of the West’s, had clearly run its course.39 A number of scholars, disenchanted with both the modernization model and Marxist historiography, began to appeal for an indigenous approach to Japanese history and for more attention to the role of the “folk” in Japanese sociopolitical change.40 In this context Robert N. Bellah’s argument for a Japanese parallel to Weber’s Protestant work ethic found fertile ground, initially prompting a more positive assessment of Japan’s modernization and a new appreciation for the role of religion and values in social change.41 Several scholars began to depict the ethos of ordinary working people as a potential resource for Japan’s modern development rather than as a stagnant repository of Japan’s “backwardness.”42 A number of historians turned to the grassroots religious movements of the late Edo and early Meiji periods as possible native sources of thought that might contain

Study of People’s Religions   9

progressive elements, in that these communities appeared to have advocated programs of social change in response to the breakdown of their lifeworld in the nineteenth century. The new approach was called minshūshi or “history of the people,” where “the people” was specifically defined as unlanded peasants and members of lower-income urban sectors.43 The historians of the people stressed commonalities among the professed goals of so-called yonaoshi (world-renewal) rebels and the followers of unauthorized religious collectives, and concluded that all these nineteenth-century actors had generated a revolutionary kind of thought, even though their calls for social reform and economic relief ultimately had little concrete effect. Several new religious associations of the time were identified as minshū shūkyō or religions of the people in this sense, and were portrayed as integral to a larger spiritual trend that had originated among the downtrodden of Japanese society.44 The genealogy of the minshū shūkyō category is further complicated by the fact that it was also a legacy of earlier scholarship on sect Shinto (kyōha Shintō).45 In the 1930s, when the study of sect Shinto was already a developed field, the aforementioned Meiji distinction between illicit “quasireligions” and the authorized Shinto sects was still very much in force. After World War II, in their efforts to create a history of popular thought the minshū scholars drew on these earlier sect Shinto studies, and their writings echo the same binary opposition between the two different types of religious formation—although instead of sect Shinto vis-à-vis quasireligions, the implicit contrast was now between the people’s religions and the “newly arisen religions.” In the climate of postwar Japan “minshū shūkyō” had relatively positive associations because it carried the import of popular resistance, reform, and even revolution, whereas “shinkō shūkyō” signaled groups that were deemed reactionary and opposed to historical progress.46 Again, the vocabulary had shifted, but the premises of the contrast remained active: there were preferable and less preferable forms of religious life, and one could account for the difference in terms of the practitioners’ political and moral values (if not of their social origins).47

The People’s History and Mount Fuji Religion The writings of Murakami Shigeyoshi, one of the most influential twentieth-­ century scholars of Japanese religions, were seminal in the development of a historiographical consensus about popular religious movements in Japan. His Kindai minshū shūkyōshi no kenkyū (1958), an interpretive account of Japanese religious groups of the nineteenth century, is credited with establishing the phrase “minshū shūkyō” in Japanese academic discourse.48 The book defines the

10  Introduction

people’s religions as independent, grassroots groups that were active during the late Tokugawa and early Meiji periods, namely Tenrikyō, Kurozumikyō, Konkōkyō, the Mount Fuji movement, and Ōmotokyō. Murakami later added Maruyamakyō and Renmonkyō to this list and postulated that all the above were spontaneous “founded religions” that “advanced under suppression and organized farm workers, urban traders, and artisans on a broad scale during the [stage of] initial accumulation of capital.”49 According to Murakami, these movements exemplified several defining characteristics of popular religious thought: a notion of salvation centered on an all-powerful, monotheistic-type deity; affirmation of fulfillment in this life, rather than salvation in the next; and a vision of social equity informed by the life experiences of the founders, who tended to originate in the less-privileged sectors of society.50 He interpreted all of these elements as a response to the harsh socioeconomic conditions in which these groups arose and ultimately as the impetus behind the calls for world renewal that surfaced in several of them. People’s quest for salvation in Murakami’s view was chiefly a matter of gaining concrete benefits by offering prayer rituals to deities—hence the proliferation during Tokugawa times of wandering religious professionals who offered healing and other ritual services, and of village societies (kō) dedicated to various gods and spiritual powers.51 The gist of Murakami’s analysis is that in the late Tokugawa and early Meiji periods people’s religious yearnings were caused by their material suffering and that they sought to address these sentiments by generating and consuming what he calls common or “vulgar” beliefs (zokushin) and “magic” (jujutsu, majinai).52 Murakami further maintained, however, that these groups were religions of the people because they generated their own beliefs and practices independently of the authorized temple-shrine system; they were able to carve out their own “communal life of faith” in which they helped and learned from each other centered on common interests. The fact that these faith communities “transcended the boundaries set by the feudal authorities” in this way demonstrated that they were capable of political dissent, even if it were not immediately overt.53 Along with other minshū historians who were inspired by elements of Marxist theory, Murakami interpreted the more episodic religious phenomena of the last Tokugawa decades in the same vein. The spontaneous Ise pilgrimages of the late period (okage mairi, nuke mairi) were construed as popular attempts to transgress the authority of the existing sociopolitical order; like the new religions these unplanned pilgrimages as well as the eejanaika outbursts on the eve of the Meiji Restoration were fueled primarily by socioeconomic discontent.54 Thus while these various activities and groupings may have possessed a certain

Study of People’s Religions   11

religious quality, for Murakami it merely amounted to people “sacralizing their own resistance” to the policies of the ruling authorities.55 Sociopolitical autonomy and individual subjectivity were characteristic concerns of postwar intellectual historians in Japan, as we have seen. Murakami typified this trend. In his view the late Tokugawa and early Meiji movements encouraged a nonfeudal (modern) type of social solidarity precisely because their members evinced an “individual subjective faith.”56 He acknowledged that the popular demand for well-being could be traced to the mid-Edo period, but in  the minshūshi narrative the actual appearance of religions of the people— groups that harbored the seeds of modern agency—was necessarily tied chronologically to the concrete signs of popular discontent that accompanied the collapse of the shogunate-domain system.57 The exceptional people’s religion that originated earlier than the nineteenth century in this view was the web of societies devoted to reverence of Mount Fuji. I have noted that unlike the other Tokugawa movements, the Fujikō network as a whole is rarely categorized as a new religion, given the modernist parameters of the term. Scholars have variously classified it as an evolved folk tradition, a lay offshoot of Shugendō, or simply as a rudimentary antecedent of the nineteenthcentury groups, depending on their particular premises regarding the nature and developmental sequence of Japanese religions.58 Murakami and his postwarera colleagues, however, consistently marshaled Fujikō (or certain of its branches) in service of their larger argument for the historical impact of the people’s religions. How did these historians justify the inclusion of this movement, which originated at least two centuries earlier than the other minshū shūkyō, among the phenomena that contributed to Japanese modernization? Their reasoning reveals the premises of the people’s history approach and its implications for the study of early modern religion. Because the Fuji groups that survived the Tokugawa-Meiji transition were collectively transmuted into Shinto sects under the Meiji state’s religion policies, some of the first serious studies of the movement took place within the framework of the Shinto scholarship that began to appear in the early twentieth century.59 Nakayama Keiichi’s 1932 Kyōha Shintō no hassei katei (The Development of Sect Shinto) is representative of these prewar accounts. The author’s starting point is the commonly accepted premise of his time, that the Shinto sects drew on a heritage of native Japanese beliefs, which had been passed down among the folk from ancient times in interaction with imported Confucian, Daoist, and Buddhist teachings.60 He identifies the origins of Fuji devotionalism with people’s “simple” belief in the mountain kami, Asama (Sengen), and explains that it was Shugendō practitioners who came to interpret the mountain deity as a “trace

12  Introduction

manifestation” (suijaku) of Dainichi Buddha, and who established Mount Fuji’s reputation as a powerful practice site.61 With regard to the Tokugawa Fuji movement Nakayama argues that the founding figure, Kakugyō, was concerned not only with ascetic disciplines but also with imparting teachings of an ethical nature (a view for which there is minimal evidence).62 The author’s discussion of the teachings of Jikigyō Miroku, the group’s early eighteenth-century leader, similarly highlights the latter’s efforts to strengthen his followers’ moral sensibilities in order that they not “simply expend themselves in self-beneficial austerities in the mountains.”63 The heart of the problem for Jikigyō was not that Fuji practitioners (Fuji gyōja) were self-absorbed or interested only in their own salvation. His main concern was broader patterns of behavior—specifically, people’s wasteful involvement in ritualized prayer (kaji kitō), as we shall see in the later chapters of this book. Nakayama duly recounts that most Fuji practices were directed at the prevention and healing of illnesses, and that people joined the groups or kō (which took shape later in the Edo period) largely because they were attracted by the promise of such tangible benefits.64 He also argues with some reason that because the Fuji practitioners became inextricably tangled up in the commercial dimension of their services, in the second half of the Edo period Fuji shinkō (faith in Fuji) became inseparable from the prayer ritual industry (like Shugendō, in his account). Yet Nakayama dwells protractedly on the fact that Jikigyō disapproved of using kaji kitō to attract followers, and then stretches to connect this relatively early reformist stance with Fujidō, a branch of the Fuji religious network that became known for its moral idealism a century or so after Jikigyō died. In Nakayama’s account, the nineteenth-century Fujidō community was composed of a dedicated core of followers who were strictly faithful to Jikigyō’s ethical standards, in contrast to the members of other Fuji societies that spread in the late Tokugawa period.65 The average kō, Nakayama says, “lacked consistent doctrines” and simply pursued a “Shugendō-type” program. In the final installment of this narrative, the more enlightened Fujidō branch of the movement successfully transformed itself after the Meiji Restoration into the Shinto sect, Jikkōkyō, while the Shugendō-type kō that foregrounded prayer rituals were assimilated into the ineffectual umbrella organization, Fusōkyō.66 This rather teleological approach to the history of Japanese religion was not uncommon among prewar historians; they tended to position post-Tokugawa popular religions within a kind of evolutionary framework, to the effect that these “Shinto” groups had succeeded in extracting themselves from an earlier folk milieu pervaded by Shugendō-esque incantatory and talismanic practices.67 The construction of Shinto itself as a pure Japanese tradition and the attendant

Study of People’s Religions   13

derogation of Shugendō (which had been banned in the early Meiji period, just before these scholars came of age) were by now well in place.68 Ritual practices regarded as lacking in rationality were regularly laid at the door of yamabushi (mountain ascetics) in academic writing about Tokugawa religion, and dedicated Fujikō scholars followed suit, ascribing the overinvolvement of some Fuji devotees in kaji kitō to residual Shugendō influence.69 More noteworthy for our purposes, however, is that in the postwar period the minshū historians became even more invested than their predecessors in demonstrating the modern, progressive, and even revolutionary qualities of the nineteenth-century religious groups, contrasting them in like fashion with the purportedly magical, Shugendō-inflected social formations of the Tokugawa period. However, because the Fuji movement in particular, unlike the other people’s religions, spanned both the early and late phases of the Edo period, it strained their argument considerably, just as it had Nakayama’s. Perhaps sensing this disjuncture, Murakami Shigeyoshi called early on for closer attention to the history of Fujikō, especially its intellectual development in the late Edo period.70 However, the net effect of his own account of the movement is again a kind of evolutionary theory of popular religion. In his classic 1958 study, Murayama characterizes the early phase of Fuji devotionalism, when Kakugyō Tōbutsu and his immediate followers were active, as a time when the community was deeply colored by “the magical tendencies of Shugendō.”71 He represents Jikigyō Miroku as a ray of rationality and moral agency in a society of passive consumers of yamabushi magic, and credits the Fuji ascetic with generating a full-fledged religious ideology, worldview, and code of conduct—all in the face of the incantatory ritualism that Jikigyō had presumably inherited from his predecessors in the movement. In this view the Fuji movement did not really become a coherent religious system until the mid-eighteenth century, after Jikigyō’s critical intervention. This claim nicely supports the people’s history premise that Tokugawa commoners did not begin to mature politically and culturally until the middle of the Edo period—and the operative word here is “begin.” It was essential to the minshūshi theory that authentic movements of the people, which by definition incorporated a critical stance toward the authorities, be shown to coincide chronologically with concrete signs of political awakening among the populace at large, such as the multiplication of large ikki (peasant rebellions) in the countryside. Fujidō, a later iteration of the Jikigyō Miroku version of the Fuji religion, could be represented without much difficulty as a forward-looking form of popular thought that spread in the face of political suppression in the late Tokugawa period. The same analysis might conceivably be applied to the Maruyama movement of the

14  Introduction

early Meiji period.72 But given the constraints of the people’s history timeline, Jikigyō’s own discourse and actions back in the Kyōhō era (1716–1736) were more suitably interpreted as expressions of moral reformism rather than of serious political awareness.73 The people’s historians were centrally concerned with identifying the markers of modernity in the Japanese context—especially, in the aftermath of the Weberian debates, in the sphere of religion and thought. The rationalization of religious teachings (that is, the elimination of magical elements) accordingly continued to be identified in their writings as an essential condition for the advent of a modern religious mentality.74 It should be noted, however, that in this view it was not a specific idea or set of practices that marked any group as a true religion of the people, but rather (and perhaps primarily) its commoner constituency and its organizational separation from the state. The powerful advance of the late Fuji movement among the working classes of Tokugawa society in the face of the sociopolitical restrictions of the time was thus identified as a critical measure of its significance and a confirmation that its teachings, like those of the new religions of the nineteenth century, somehow contained the elements of modern thought. In other words, even if a religious movement could not completely transcend the magical ethos of the society in which it originated, its unauthorized spread among the less-privileged sectors of Edo and adjacent rural areas necessarily ranked it alongside other groups deemed tributary to the postRestoration new religions. All were “embryos of modernization” in the Tokugawa-period incubator.75

The “Early Modern Cosmology” Among the several Japanese scholars who wrote on the history of popular thought in the 1960s and ’70s, Yasumaru Yoshio stands out for his attention to its religious manifestations.76 Like Murakami Shigeyoshi, he called for an intellectual history that would take full account of ordinary people’s life concerns, and in 1971 the two scholars brought the historical study of popular Japanese thought to a new level by publishing a critical edition of the writings of several groups that had originated in the Edo period independently of the religious establishment.77 Yasumaru’s writings in this area, especially his groundbreaking interpretation of so-called world renewal (yonaoshi) thought, substantially advanced scholarly thinking in Japan and abroad about the nature of the popular religious movements and their role in Japanese modernization.78 Unlike Marxian accounts that depicted “the people” as agents of rebellion, and in contrast to Murakami, who had taken a more heavy-handed approach to popular religion and identified

Study of People’s Religions   15

primarily programs that called for social change to be authentic minshū shūkyō, Yasumaru considered even groups that did not openly herald a new world order to be potential forces of sociopolitical transformation.79 He was more interested in what we might call the inner dimension of the nineteenth-century movements, and in this regard shared ground with the Weberian interpreters of Japanese modernization. Yasumaru did not draw a direct correlation between the specific values advocated by the popular religions and the impetus for socioeconomic change, but argued rather that people’s growing preoccupation in the late Edo period with the cultivation of a “shared” or “common” morality (tsūzoku dōtoku)—which encompassed familiar ideals such as filial piety, loyalty, and frugality—encouraged a level of self-determination that itself fostered Japanese progress. The actual ethical ideas, in other words, were less important for Yasumaru than this inner sense of moral responsibility (the “philosophy of the heart,” kokoro no tetsugaku), because it worked against a passive attitude of dependence on religious professionals for spiritual fulfillment. The foundation of this self-reliance, according to Yasumaru, was the belief that human beings were fundamentally one with the most powerful force in the universe, which was often conceived as a supreme, monotheistic-type god.80 Yasumaru’s repeated stress, like Murakami’s, on the this-worldly character of the people’s religions was not unrelated to this position. The tacit premise of his thinking on this issue, like that of many twentieth-century historians, was that any element in a religious phenomenon that reeked of the medieval must necessarily have dissipated or at least be in decline in order for that religion to merit identification as an antecedent of the modern. Anxiety about rebirth in Amida Buddha’s Pure Land, concern for karmic retribution suffered by deceased family members in the next life, fear of resentful spirits and other possessing creatures—all were modes of thought that pertained to a realm of faith and must therefore, in this view, be incompatible with rational reflection, moral self-discipline, and, in short, the sorts of spiritual cultivation that a human being can control. In his later debates with other historians of Japanese religions (especially Kanda Hideo), Yasumaru eventually finessed his position, acknowledging that even in the medieval period people’s belief in the next life did not mean they denied the importance of the needs of this world.81 Yet he retained his view that virtually all social and personal life of the time had been “controlled by magic and religion,” and that only a handful of religious figures (allegedly the great Pure Land Buddhist masters, Hōnen and Shinran) had challenged this way of thinking. In contrast, according to Yasumaru, significant sectors of Tokugawa society moved progressively away from esoteric Buddhist practices, absorbed

16  Introduction

Neo-Confucian ideas, and took up a world-affirming, rational way of thinking, which he dubbed the “early modern cosmology.”82 In emphasizing the role of moral autonomy in the development of the modern mentality the historians of popular thought were not simply assuming that the people they studied were self-determining citizens akin to those they associated with a modern society. Murakami, Yasumaru, and the other minshū historians were well aware of the internal tensions that characterized the Tokugawa and early Meiji popular movements. They explicitly acknowledged that (in Irokawa Daikichi’s words) “the people’s thoughts, reflecting the lives they live, are full of contradictions and contain a maze of traditions and customs.”83 Murakami, for example, pointed out that the Fuji leaders, including Jikigyō Miroku, affirmed the value of the Tokugawa sociopolitical framework even as they called for change.84 Yasumaru for his part reiterated that the peasants and townsfolk of the early modern period continued to live in fear of evil spirits and that their most pressing religious concern was precisely the problem of how to control and appease these malevolent forces by acquiring the help of gods and buddhas.85 However, he and his colleagues invariably characterized popular thought as moving progressively away from the postmedieval, passive habits of folk religion and magic.86 In Yasumaru’s view, while the ethical self that he associated with the modern mentality had begun to develop in Japan in response to the growing commercialization of the economy in the midTokugawa period, the actual transition to a modern way of thinking did not come into play, except in isolated cases, until the late Edo period, when the new religious movements and the values they promoted first took hold on a large scale.87 Like Murakami and other colleagues, then, Yasumaru consistently located the rise of the “new political subjectivity” in the nineteenth century, as exemplified most clearly in his view by the teachings of Deguchi Nao (1837–1918), the founding figure of Ōmotokyō.88 However, Nao’s denunciation of the evil world controlled by the privileged and the wealthy, her eschatology of imminent restoration by a powerful deity, her devaluation of the gods conventionally associated with the Ise Shrines and the imperial line, and other elements of Ōmoto thought were not innovative in the longue durée of Japanese religious history. These ideas, as Yasumaru well knew, had already surfaced in other Japanese religious groups, including the Fuji movement, but he believed that these earlier associations had remained fundamentally passive in nature rather than adopting an active sociopolitical stance. It was only by imposing this kind of developmental map onto Tokugawa popular thought that Yasumaru, Murakami, Nakayama, and other twentieth-century historians were able to account for apparent examples of grassroots self-determination that significantly predated the socioeconomic upheavals of the mid-nineteenth century. As Takashi Fujitani puts it, “In

Study of People’s Religions   17

claiming that the same movement toward modernity through the emergence of the ‘self-constituting, self-disciplining subject’ had occurred throughout Japan over the course of two centuries or so, [Yasumaru’s] logic, like that of the modernization theorists, was still one of development and lag.”89 Yasumaru’s treatment of the Fuji religious movement and of Jikigyō Miroku in particular was impelled by this need to “look for the starting point of people’s religion.” He rightly emphasized that for Jikigyō the entire world was one in substance because it was grounded in the “supreme authority” of Sengen Daibosatsu, the Mount Fuji deity. Sengen was the source of the true nature of human beings; people and their daily activities embodied this divinely endowed nature and therefore possessed absolute value. Jikigyō was unhappy with prayer rituals precisely because he thought they obstructed this human oneness with Sengen. The problem in Yasumaru’s analysis is rather the further claim that Jikigyō’s stance was “a direct criticism of the folk-religious ethos that controlled people by monopolizing the magical power of such activities as kaji kitō.” The premise of this view is that the practices and attitudes characteristic of the Fuji community before Jikigyō’s time were typical examples of this ethos: “The heart of the religious practice of this kind of Fuji faith consisted in kaji kitō . . . and healing by means of ofusegi [talismans]. The ominuki [Kakugyō’s ritual works], which presumably summarize the [Fuji] teachings, contain invented characters and invented pictures: they are strongly magical in nature. . . . Jikigyō Miroku . . . is the personage who rejected this magical nature of the Fuji religion and turned it toward the advocacy of daily morality.”90 Yasumaru does not simplistically argue that Jikigyō denied the validity of the “folk religious ethos” as a whole but rather that the Fuji leader assimilated informal elements of it into his version of the so-called early modern cosmology, which was centered on the identity of the Fuji god and the human self.91 What remains unclear, however, are the specific nature and role of the alleged magical and folk-religious elements in Jikigyō’s thought, and indeed in Fujikō in general. We are left to assume that these practices (which included in this view not only apotropaic and healing rituals but also the worship of various deities, divination, informal ritual gatherings, and so forth) were all magical activities of which the Fuji ascetic would have disapproved.92 The later chapters of this book demonstrate that Jikigyō Miroku’s view of these matters was a bit more complex.

Beyond the People’s Religions The notion that modernization required the emergence of a rational subject who no longer passively consumed magical rituals remained influential in Japanese scholarly thinking through the 1960s and ’70s, despite the variety of interpretive

18  Introduction

approaches that were brought to bear on the study of popular religions.93 By the late 1970s and ’80s, however, this version of Tokugawa religious history was losing appeal.94 The academic study of new religions was now coming to the fore in the West, which led to more exchange between Japanese and international scholars on the subject, especially in the social sciences. In due course attempts to theorize about new religions in a global framework prompted sharp critiques of the minshūshi approach to Japan’s religious movements. In a seminal article published in 1979, a group of Japanese scholars (Tsushima Michihito, Nishiyama Shigeru, Shimazono Susumu, and Shiramizu Hiroko) claimed that the religious groups generated by “the people themselves” beginning in the early nineteenth century were by definition new religions.95 Unlike the minshū historians, who focused almost exclusively on late Tokugawa–early Meiji religious formations, these social scientists understood all the new religions to be systemized expressions of “the inchoate religious consciousness” of the modern Japanese people. They sought to identify the core beliefs of these movements with an enduring folk tradition, arguing in particular that the groups exemplified a foundational Japanese understanding of salvation and the cosmos, which they called seimeishugi or “vitalism.”96 After surveying several new religious movements, both older and more recent in origin, Tsushima and his colleagues concluded that the central premise of these groups’ teachings was that the universe is the ultimate source of all life and power, and that it was often identified with or personified by the group’s main deity. God, in other words, creates and actively sustains the entirety of the cosmos and its processes, with human beings serving as microcosmic embodiments of the divine source of life and vitality. It followed in this view that the locus of salvation is this world, rather than an afterlife projected forward into the future. Hence, in the new religions, it was argued, regardless of when they originated, individual salvation or fulfillment was not only compatible with the attainment of the good life, complete with concrete benefits—it was fundamentally the same existential event.97 Shimazono stressed in his own writings as well that in many nineteenth-century groups (notably Tenrikyō), self-discipline and the cultivation of common values were part and parcel of the individual’s devotion to the deity, not a rejection of nonrational ways of thinking and acting.98 In this light the people’s religions were impelled not by a system of mind cultivation or a “philosophy of the heart” that encouraged their development into modern ethical subjects liberated from ritual devotions, as the people’s historians would have it. Indeed, it was through “magical-type rituals” that members of these movements experienced the operation of a deity who gave birth to, protected, and cared for them. In other words, they gained moral agency precisely by

Study of People’s Religions   19

yielding themselves to an all-powerful god and becoming vehicles for the divine will.99 The vitalism scholars criticized previous studies of Japanese religious movements for downplaying the concern with individual salvation and mistakenly opposing it to people’s interest in acquiring tangible benefits in this world (genze riyaku). Because of the overemphasis on this-worldly benefits such as health and prosperity, they complained, the new religions had been erroneously characterized as lacking a genuine soteriology, or at best of incoherently mixing desires for well-being and fortune with authentic religious commitment. The polarization of personal salvation and concrete benefits was akin in their view to “the way of thinking that opposes religion and magic,” which in turn was “based on the deep-rooted bias of modernist culture [formed] under the influence of Christianity and other historical religions.”100 Hence, although these scholars’ stress on this-worldly salvation cohered with the views expressed by Murakami, Yasumaru, and other historians of popular religion, the net effect of their argument was to dissolve (at least in theory) the binary opposition between magical rituals and rational agency that had animated the people’s history version of the Tokugawa religions—an opposition that by now had been irretrievably tagged as an imported discourse inappropriate to the Japanese context.101 The people’s history approach to religion was criticized on several other grounds as well, such as its restriction in scope to nineteenth-century groups, especially those that were inspired by a charismatic founder and/or possessed some sort of revolutionary quality.102 Shimazono charged the people’s historians with concentrating their studies only on texts; they had not seriously analyzed group members’ actual religious practices and as a result their scholarship provided little insight into the lived religion of ordinary Japanese people.103 Taking his cue from the teachings of Kino, the founder of Nyoraikyō, Kanda Hideo questioned the assumption that the followers of the people’s religions were indeed this-worldly in orientation—in other words, that they consistently understood salvation to be accessible in this life and had little concern for the effects of their actions in an afterworld.104 Katsurajima Nobuhiro for his part argued that nineteenth-century religions (notably Konkōkyō and Tenrikyō) eventually modified elements of their religious thought and practice (such as their multivalent conceptions of deity), not primarily because of some inherent rationality in their respective founders’ teachings (the “seeds of modernity” idea) but in response to the Meiji state’s centralizing and modernizing policies.105 The intellectual historian Koyasu Nobukuni in turn accused the people’s religion scholars of constructing narratives that mirrored their own ideological agenda rather than the actual ideas of the popular thinkers they studied.106

20  Introduction

By the 1990s the field had clearly moved on; as Koyasu put it, readers were fed up with the people’s religions narrative.107 The classic opposition between magic and rationality, or between prayer rituals and moral cultivation, continues to animate some scholarship on Japanese religious history (of any period) today, but for the most part there is a consensus that people’s interest in acquiring tangible benefits through ritual propitiation of a deity or spiritual force does not diminish the significance of their moral agency or independence. There is no dearth of evidence that the people who advocated hard work, thrift, and filial piety as a means of personal improvement in the Tokugawa period were the same ones who sought protection from evil influences and diseases by relying on their local ritual specialist. Jikigyō Miroku’s critical assessment of commissioned prayer (kaji kitō) in the early eighteenth century, like that articulated by some new-religion founders in the nineteenth, was not prompted by the conviction that all prayer in quest of benefits is useless nonsense or (in Tokugawa parlance) indecent rituals (inshi). The dominant emphasis in both historical contexts was rather that people were not sincere in their devotions to the principal deity of their religion, and that this lack of authenticity was exacerbated by outsourcing rituals to paid professionals. The renewed study of patterns of religious life in the early modern period, free of the restrictions imposed by preoccupations with modernity and its associated temporal fixations (the evolution from magic/passivity to rationality/ autonomy), has opened up new vistas in our understanding of the history of Japanese religions as a whole. At the same time, perhaps partly because of the past overemphasis on elements of autonomy and political dissent in the nineteenth-century movements, these aspects of popular religious life in the early Tokugawa period have garnered little attention. As we have seen, Japanese historians heralded the protorevolutionary significance of the late Fuji movement, yet with regard to its earlier teachings and practices they limited themselves to stressing Jikigyō’s rejection of ritualistic customs in favor of personal moral improvement. In their concern with constructing a modernization narrative that cohered with their theoretical premises, they neglected sustained consideration of ways in which early Tokugawa popular thought may have possessed qualities of political significance in its own right and for its own time. Indeed, grassroots dissent before the nineteenth century is still depicted in standard histories as a matter of episodic peasant protests, while discursive expressions of opposition to the Tokugawa system tend to be associated only with educated thinkers. Yet the hints of dissonance with the Tokugawa order contained in our fragmentary record of the emerging Fuji movement and in Jikigyō Miroku’s writings offer rare glimpses, however muted or obscure, into the political sensibilities of the lesser estates of the time.

Study of People’s Religions   21

By “political” I mean pertaining broadly to the cultural products, practices, and beliefs that undergird and propel power relations among diverse groups in society as a whole, not simply to matters such as overt opposition to the state, or, in Saba Mahmood’s words, “the rather flat narrative of succumbing to or resisting relations of domination.”108 In this study I take due inspiration from the postwar scholarly emphasis on the self-determination of Tokugawa religious groups such as Fujikō, as marked especially by their independence from the sectarian establishment. However, I find the political significance of these movements in their production of heterodox forms of devotional culture, and in their members’ activist discourse and behavior in their own time, rather than in the fact that they later spread in the face of suppression or encouraged a shift away from passive consumption of commissioned rituals to self-directed moral cultivation. It bears reiteration that temporally oriented theories such as modernization are not the only way to grasp the political vector in early modern religious life. Jean Comaroff reminds us, for example, that charismatic religious activity is itself revolutionary insofar as it creates “a space from which the established world [can] be judged and acted on in terms other than its own.”109 She has in mind classic examples of charismatic action such as spirit possession, which contravenes modernist notions of selfhood because it implies the unwilled invasion of the body by an extraneous power—a model that might fit the profile of the founders of several late Tokugawa and early Meiji religious groups.110 The Fuji movement was not clearly inspired by charismatic action of this variety, but as Comaroff observes even individuals who are not possessed outright but who are infused with prophetic zeal or a sense of divine mission, or who engage in extreme asceticism, are inevitably in tension with the existing sociopolitical order. When they are suppressed or limited by that order, they generate alternative channels of expression, and those channels are themselves implicitly subversive.111 My approach in this book accords with this view. By virtue of their perceived connection with a powerful spiritual force or deity, not only religious figures per se but their bodily activities and cultural products (ascetic disciplines, liturgies, prayers, scripts, images) can open up spaces for alternative modes of agency within the dominant world order.112 The revelations, documented in his drawings and scripts, that the Fuji founding figure Kakugyō Tōbutsu received from the god of Mount Fuji after he completed his severe ascetic regimens, and the renewal of those truths in the religious practices and writings of his later followers, possessed an authority that derived from a source of power ostensibly beyond these practitioners’ control. Their ritual culture and religious ideas, empowered by their devotion to Mount Fuji and expressed in multiple sensory registers, tell a story of independent thinking, if not dissent.

22  Introduction

In speaking of independence and dissent I do not mean to romanticize the Fuji movement as somehow progressive or enlightened for its time. Disagreement with the dominant order often takes the form of a call for restoration of a perceived loss of integrity and justice in the world, and thus for a revival of traditional values and behaviors. Kakugyō’s followers, including Jikigyō Miroku, generally affirmed and perpetuated the existing social and ethical system. However, not unlike the Buddhist reformers and thinkers of the Kamakura period, who called for revised forms of religious life based on their innovative conceptions of Amida or Śākyamuni Buddha, or like the founders of the new religious movements of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries who each developed their own original teachings, the leading members of the Fuji community understood themselves to be reinstating a divine or sanctified order, one with which the rulers had been commissioned but had failed to fulfill. Their occasional intimations of dissent were driven by an impulse to correct and enhance rather than to subvert the Tokugawa establishment. The independence of popular religions such as the Fuji movement did not manifest as a quest for freedom from social strictures or political control but rather as autonomy in the religious and cultural sphere, which took the form of practices and ideas that creatively reinterpreted and sometimes undermined existing norms and ideologies. The shogunal and domain authorities of Tokugawa Japan employed numerous local and regional mechanisms to ensure that subjects remained in a position of subordination to the state. Violation of strictures based on class, rank, and gender, much less open political dissent, was for the most part precluded. Villagers and townspeople enjoyed limited forms of communal self-government, but these arrangements were effectively a means for the authorities to maintain control at the local level. Early in the Tokugawa period Buddhist temples as well as shrines dedicated to Japanese gods (kami) were placed under the administration of government proxies and subjected to centralizing and regulatory policies; itinerant ritual practitioners of various kinds, including mountain ascetics, were expected to register with sectarian bodies or guildlike associations. In addition, the authorities required laypeople to certify their family’s affiliation with the local Buddhist temple, initially in order to ensure that they were not Kirishitan, or converts to Christianity (which had been outlawed in 1614), but ultimately also as a means of enforcing social stability and maintaining temple economies.113 Groups that resisted adaptation to these religious controls were suppressed and went underground, such as the fuju fuse Nichiren Buddhist sect and the so-called hidden nenbutsu communities, in addition to the Kirishitan.114

Study of People’s Religions   23

Given the sociopolitical constraints of the time, it may seem counterintuitive to characterize any form of religious activity in early modern Japan as independent. Nevertheless, people who were duly registered with the appropriate local authorities and who appeared to follow customary religious practices were not necessarily strictly monitored. In some cases clusters of practitioners were able to cultivate their own interpretations of religious doctrines and rituals without reference to any formal sectarian structure and, at least initially, without much interference from the authorities. These informal collectives, which often attracted followers by offering to cure illness or provide other concrete benefits, multiplied especially later in the Edo period. As the historians of the people correctly emphasized, some segments of the Tokugawa population, particularly in the nineteenth century, were able to construct socioreligious enclaves for themselves in this sense. I argue in this book, however, that it is also in the first half of the Edo period that we should look for qualities of independence in early modern religious life—and not because, along the lines of the “seeds of modernity” argument, religious actors of the time were gravitating toward moral self-cultivation and rationality as opposed to devotional and magical practices, but because they resourcefully adapted postmedieval forms of faith to meet the changing needs of their own historical context, and in the process, in some cases, exhibited a certain political awareness.

Chapter Overview In an effort to grasp the transformation in the world of popular religion that took place from the late medieval to the mid-Edo period, in this study I have focused on the formative phase of the Mount Fuji religious movement, from its estimated origins in the late sixteenth century through its interpretation by Jikigyō Miroku in the early eighteenth century. The book is therefore not a social history of Fujikō as a whole or an account of the mountain’s pilgrimage industry, both of which burgeoned during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Rather, I concentrate on selected practices and cultural elements that originally shaped the new Fuji devotionalism or “faith” (shinkō), and on the teachings, associated primarily with Jikigyō Miroku, that were formulated and embodied in response to that heritage. Chapter 1 accordingly begins with a sketch of the late medieval–early Tokugawa pilgrimage establishment at Mount Fuji. The behaviors expected of religious travelers to Mount Fuji at the time, which are intimated in scattered records associated with the Shugendō center and Sengen shrines on the mountain, suggest that these institutions fundamentally controlled the pilgrimage experience; their representatives supervised pilgrims in

24  Introduction

ritual preliminaries before the climb, operated the travelers’ lodgings, guided climbers on the trail, and during the off-season cultivated patron households throughout much of central Japan. In the later sections of chapter 1 I introduce examples of late medieval culture that variously evoke images of the mountain as a site of spiritual challenge and/or blissful salvation. A moralistic tale that would circulate widely in the Edo period portrays a subterranean cave in Mount Fuji’s southwestern foothills as the site of a frightening underworld encounter with the powerful mountain god Asama (Sengen), while sixteenth-century art works known as “pilgrimage mandalas” (sankei mandara) present viewers with inspirational itineraries to Buddhist enlightenment at the summit. With the facilitation of travel in general and especially with the great migration of people of diverse social origins to the nearby city of Edo in the seventeenth century, alternative interpretations of the mountain’s religious value came to the fore. The commonalities and differences between the pilgrimage mandalas, in particular, and the ritual images of Mount Fuji generated by the Fujikō founding figure and his followers show that the mountain was meaningfully reimagined and, as it were, vernacularized during the seventeenth century. Whereas Mount Fuji had been represented to potential pilgrims in the sixteenth century as an alluring travel destination and a hallowed practice site, a century later Kakugyō’s followers had independently adapted these Fuji images for their own purposes as objects of domestic worship and talismanic practice. The new religious appropriation of Mount Fuji possessed linguistic as well as visual dimensions. Chapter 2 analyzes the uses and meanings of the text that inhabits the Fuji group’s devotional and talismanic works, again with an eye to parallels in existing mountain religious culture. Materials of this kind were central to Japanese traditions of prayer ritual—a set of cultural practices that expanded exponentially during the Tokugawa period. The characters and syllabic marks that appear on the Fuji group’s scrolls and slips of paper were believed to activate the therapeutic and apotropaic powers of the mountain god when they were vocalized in defined ritual contexts or physically assimilated to the body (worn or ingested). I suggest that the visible words on these talismanic writings served referentially and symbolically even as their oral intonation operated performatively and liturgically in group worship. The appearance of the inscribed text, which originated with Kakugyō Tōbutsu and governed Fuji ritual writings thereafter, points to an impetus in the founding generations of the movement to reinvent the common religious heritage of their time. The peculiar characters used in these writings transgressed existing sociolinguistic conventions and provided a multisensory medium through which Kakugyō and his

Study of People’s Religions   25

followers were able to assert an original religious program. The dominant underlying idea of that program, still in its incipient stages at the time, was the dualgendered parental nature of the god of Mount Fuji. The study of Asian religions has been enriched in recent years by a growing interest in material, visual, and ritual culture, counterbalancing our earlier overemphasis on great thinkers, established traditions, and abstract, prescriptive texts. However, the analysis of the religious doctrines of less-educated people, such as small-scale traders, artisans, and farm workers, remains relatively underdeveloped even in the Tokugawa context, when members of these social groups played a leading role in developing and spreading new forms of thought and practice in Japan. In chapter 3 I venture into this terrain by offering an interpretation of the teachings advocated in the early eighteenth century by the Edo townsman and Mount Fuji devotee Jikigyō Miroku. I highlight the ecological nature of his thought—that is, his view of the universe, including human society, as a system of life elements organically related to each other and sustained by the father-mother deity of Mount Fuji—and emphasize that his overriding moral and religious concern was the balance of this cosmic system. The ideal of the equilibrium of dual-gendered cosmic forces remained fundamental to the Fuji religion throughout its history. It was not novel in itself, indebted as it was to native kami lore and assimilated yin-yang ideas, but in the Fuji case the conception prompted the elaboration of a number of original tenets, notably a vision of world salvation that promised fairness and harmony in social and gender relations. In particular, as we shall see, Jikigyō’s valuation of the female role in reproduction and his rejection of ritual restrictions that were tied to the derogation of women in the religious sphere were premised on his vision of Mount Fuji as a source of life and creative power. In this regard as well the Fuji community generated its own critical discourse on social reform long before the so-called new religions. At the same time, the writings attributed to Jikigyō Miroku also make clear his conviction that the ideal world (the “Age of Miroku”) proclaimed by the god of Mount Fuji would be fully realized only if members of all social classes embodied moral standards such as hard work, filial piety, and thrift in their daily lives. I argue that even as the Fuji leader advocated values that bolstered the Tokugawa sociopolitical order, the divine imperative to actualize the new world induced him, and in due course, his followers, to adopt an independent and sometimes critical stance toward contemporary customs that they perceived as incompatible with their vision of world transformation. Jikigyō Miroku’s disapproval of the religious practices that were spreading in his time was a corollary of his views on social equity. Chapter 4 proposes that a driving force in Jikigyō’s critique of prayer rituals and alms solicitation was an

26  Introduction

intense concern with economy. In the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries frugality and diligence were major themes in the Edo ethos, and the Fuji ascetic’s stress on these values unsurprisingly echoes the well-known literary articulations of his time. Yet while other didacts tended to exalt thrift primarily as a matter of personal discipline and pragmatic necessity, for Jikigyō and his followers frugality meant in the first place an active commitment to fairness and material relief as willed by the deity of Mount Fuji. Here, too, Jikigyō’s position went beyond adherence to conventional morality. He understood economy in daily life, especially in religious life, not simply as an important virtue for the Edo townsperson but as itself a form of devotion: worship was to be directed economically to Mount Fuji. Giving excessive alms or paying others to offer prayers to secondary deities ignored the reality that the god of the mountain was the only real source of power in the universe. The chapter demonstrates that Jikigyō’s strenuous denunciations of the ritual professionals who solicited compensation for their services were not fueled by a rationalist rejection of the validity of prayer rituals and talismanic practices but by the Fuji ascetic’s overriding concern with authenticity in devotional life, and its corollary, fairness in social relations and material resources. In his late years Jikigyō Miroku’s commitment to the divine mandate of social and economic justice compelled him to denounce the shogun’s fiscal policies and, ultimately, to fast to death on Mount Fuji. In chapter 5 I suggest that Jikigyō’s activist posture toward the Tokugawa order cohered with an evolving view in the emerging Fuji movement that its members were responsible to assist the emperor and the shogun in bringing the Age of Miroku to fruition. Despite their status as small-scale traders and artisans, by the early eighteenth century some of these Fuji devotees had acquired a sense of mission to advise and even, in Jikigyō’s case, to admonish the government. His death on Mount Fuji was clearly inspired by the Japanese ascetic tradition of benefiting others through bodily self-sacrifice, but it also constituted a decisive political statement to the Tokugawa world at large.

C HA P T E R ON E

Changing Pilgrimage Culture at Mount Fuji

Reverence paid to the god of Mount Fuji in the late medieval and early Edo periods was part of a larger universe of rural and increasingly urban religious practices and beliefs centered on various deities and perceived sources of spiritual power. In the Mount Fuji vicinity as in other parts of Japan religious hopes and attitudes toward the local mountain god were intertwined with preoccupations about ordinary life problems and not clearly differentiated from those directed at buddhas, bodhisattvas, or other deities. This diffuse form of devotion to Mount Fuji (Fuji shinkō) coexisted with and for the most part reinforced the system of organized pilgrimage to the mountain run by local temples and shrines. This chapter lays a foundation for understanding the development in this socioreligious environment of unofficial lay groups, later called Fuji kō, whose members were dedicated to the worship of Mount Fuji. I begin by outlining the workings of the pilgrimage system at the mountain in the late sixteenth to early seventeenth centuries, as well as the eventual weakening of its Shugendō component on the southern slope and the shift in interest to the northern climbing trails. Religious practices on Mount Fuji were primarily supervised by the mountain ascetics and shrine staff who were headquartered in the foothills, but with the explosive growth of the shogunal capital in nearby Edo and the general loosening of travel restrictions in the seventeenth century, people began to re­ imagine the religious meaning of the mountain and to generate their own ritual culture. In the new form of Fuji devotionalism, late medieval portrayals of Mount Fuji, whether narratives of heroic exploits in its dark caves or paintings of a salvific buddha realm at the peak, were displaced by talismanic renditions that purported to channel the power of the mountain deity, Sengen. We shall see that the image of the mountain as a pilgrimage destination that is projected in sixteenth-century “Fuji pilgrimage mandalas” (Fuji sankei mandara) was fundamentally repurposed in order to meet people’s changing religious needs in the Tokugawa period.

27

28  Chapter 1

The Pilgrimage System in Transition Organized mountain asceticism played a formative role in the development of popular devotion to Mount Fuji. The reputed pioneer of ascetic practices on Mount Fuji in the late Heian period, Matsudai Shōnin (n.d.), is credited with erecting a small temple dedicated to Dainichi Buddha at the mountain’s summit in 1149.1 During the ensuing centuries, ascetic and pilgrimage activities on the mountain came to be based at Murayama, a site on the lower southern slope, not far from the main route between Edo and Kyoto, that Matsudai had allegedly selected at the beginning of the “front” climbing trail (omoteguchi). By the late fifteenth century the Murayama temple complex, formally titled Fujisan Kōhōji, had been drawn into the line of Shugendō administered by the Tendai Buddhist temple Shōgoin in Kyoto.2 Murayama was a powerful presence in the world of Mount Fuji pilgrimage in the medieval period; it possessed rights to the upper reaches of the mountain, above the eighth station or level, and its guides supervised most pilgrimage activities along the southern approach.3 The Shugendō complex centered on three main temple-lodges—Tsujinobō, Chiseibō, and Daikyōbō—each of which, in accordance with the combinatory thinking of the time, correlated its main deity with another god or buddha and the religious institution in which the latter was enshrined.4 There were two tiers of practitioners identified with Murayama—the temple priests (shuto) and the nonresident mountain ascetics (yamabushi), who often served as mountain guides (sendatsu).5 The resident priests were central to the workings of the temple complex—they carried out seasonal rituals, operated the lodges, and in general cultivated relations with the pilgrims. Unlike the itinerant ascetics, these resident clergy operated within the framework of Buddhist temple protocols of the time (prohibitions against buying or selling fish, exclusion of ritually impure persons, injunctions against quarrelling, and so forth).6 They also exerted authority over the mountain guides. In 1558, for example, the domain lord (who ruled Suruga and Tōtōmi) ordered the Daikyōbō priests to supervise mountain guides in the area, probably in order to tighten control, not only over the guides but by extension over the pilgrims and their activities.7 The operation of the southern trail in in the late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries was a highly organized affair. The Shugendō center worked in parallel with the nearby Main Sengen Shrine at Ōmiya in running pilgrimage activities and managing hostels on the southern slope.8 Especially after the Ōnin War (1467–1477) many temples and shrines in Japan lost access to their earlier economic resources and came to rely on alms solicitation and fees for their upkeep.9 The institutions on Mount Fuji were no exception. The ascetics who practiced at the summit and other

Changing Pilgrimage Culture   29

sites on the mountain periodically visited villages in the catchment area, distributing talismans and performing prayer services for the local inhabitants, all of which involved remuneration. The lodging houses were also funded by fees paid by the pilgrims, who were often (or soon became) established patrons or “parishioners” (danna).10 The Main Sengen Shrine alone operated as many as ninety pilgrim lodges in the vicinity between 1555 and 1570, and maintained a steady stream of revenue from other sources as well. For example, in 1560 Hōdōin, the shrine’s administrative subtemple, received approval from the domain lord to conduct a house-to-house campaign in order to fund construction of its goma hall, a project that had apparently been in hiatus for some time.11 The shrine (and by extension the domain authorities) also garnered income from taxes of various kinds, especially tolls levied at borders and fees charged for climbing the mountain; during the sixteenth century numerous barriers that targeted climbers were in operation on the lower reaches of Mount Fuji.12 In addition, fees were charged for each of the rituals required of pilgrims who pursued the southern route, ranging from a charge for undergoing mizugori (ritual cleansing) in Wakutama Pond at the outset of the climb to a toll imposed upon arrival at the summit. The revenue from these various levies was ultimately channeled to the Main Sengen Shrine. The commercialization of the pilgrimage experience at Mount Fuji in the sixteenth century established a firm foundation for the continuation of the enterprise in the Tokugawa period. Ōmiya’s revenue, for example, increased substantially during the seventeenth century.13 Some local toll barriers were removed during the transition to the new shogunal order, but lodging and ritual fees continued to be collected by the Main Shrine in collaboration with the local superintendent.14 A monk from Kōfukuji in Nara who climbed the mountain in 1608 meticulously recorded his expenses at each stage of the trip:15 On the ninth day of the sixth month I left Suruga to climb Mount Fuji. It was about seven leagues from Fuchū to the Fuji River, and I stayed over at Ōmiya.16 First I carried out ritual ablutions. After giving six mon for the ablution fee I proceeded to Ōmiya Hall to pay my respects. The following day I reached Murayama under a heavy rain.17 I put up for the night at the Daikō Lodge.18 The charge for room and board was 100 mon per person. For the so-called Six Karmic Realms fee I gave thirty-six mon.19 The ablution fee was another six mon; there is a waterfall [for this purpose].20 At Omuro I paid 100 mon for the memorial offering and at Chūgū I bought walking sticks with streamers attached that cost six mon each.21 Then, further along [the trail] I paid eight mon for a mat, and still higher up people were collecting cash at the spot called Sai no Kawara.22

30  Chapter 1

For the ordinary traveler the lodging and ritual fees associated with the climb, especially when combined with the cost of the trip from home and back, were evidently not negligible.23 Yet in spite of the expense and time involved, pilgrimage activities at Mount Fuji continued to expand in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Based on his study of Murayama pilgrim registers Kikuchi Kunihiko believes that even before the Tokugawa period people at a distance from Mount Fuji had already organized themselves into small cells called kōya that were supervised by mountain guides and group leaders, anticipating the later Fuji kō system.24 The Daikyōbō register, Fujisan danki, shows that many of the dōsha (pilgrims) who used the Murayama entrance to the mountain during the late sixteenth and the early seventeenth centuries came from places west of the mountain, such as Ise, Iga, Kyōto, and Ōmi. It is likely that for some time Shugendō practitioners had been encouraging groups of devotees at these and other sites to visit the mountain as well as to participate in Fuji rituals close to home.25 By the onset of the Edo period numerous travelers to Mount Fuji were using not only the southern route from Ōmiya and Murayama but also the northern and eastern trails, which commenced at Kawaguchi, Yoshida, Subashiri, and Suyama. The popularization of these routes is often associated with the establishment of the Tokugawa headquarters in nearby Edo at the beginning of the seventeenth century, but in reality activity on the northern and eastern trails was already on the rise in the Muromachi period. The recent discovery on the northern side of Mount Fuji of two 1482 plates engraved with devotional images (one of the esoteric Buddhist deity Fudō Myōō, and one of the bodhisattva Fugen) and with the names of sponsoring patrons in each case tallies with reports of increased ritual practice in the area from at least the late fifteenth century.26 Katsuyama-ki, a Nichiren Buddhist chronological record, documents that religious travel to the mountain intensified from the late fifteenth to early sixteenth centuries. We are told, for example, that in 1500 a good number of pilgrims began their ascent of Mount Fuji from Subashiri (in today’s northeastern Shizuoka) in order to circumvent the fighting that was raging in other parts of eastern Japan.27 Another entry states that in 1518 a group of pilgrims in the same area was overcome by a mountain storm, leading to thirteen fatalities (including three people who were “devoured by large bears”).28 Yet in spite of these and other challenges northern pilgrimage parties continued to multiply and to represent an ever broader range of provenances.29 By 1572 some eighty lodges were reportedly being operated by pilgrimage coordinators (oshi) affiliated with the Kitaguchi Sengen Shrine at Yoshida.30 As at Ōmiya and Murayama in the southern foothills, the pilgrimage system in the north was a well-established enterprise by the beginning of the Tokugawa period.31

Changing Pilgrimage Culture   31

Map 2. Pilgrimage routes to Mount Fuji in the Tokugawa Period. Adapted from Matsui Keisuke and Uda Takuya, “Kinsei ni okeru Fujisan shinkō to tsūrizumu.”

Visitors to Mount Fuji in the early Edo period were expected to follow a set ritual sequence under the supervision of the pilgrimage coordinators and mountain guides.32 People who used the southern approach generally began their journey near the Yoshiwara station of the Tōkaidō and passed through the Main Sengen Shrine and Murayama before proceeding up to the peak. During this preliminary stage, as indicated above by the Kōfukuji monk, travelers purified themselves by carrying out cold-water rituals, after which they reportedly placed a shime (a special Mount Fuji kesa or Buddhist surplice) over their heads, symbolically taking on the appearance of monastics and thus “realizing enlightenment.”33 Subsequently they were escorted to the lower reaches of the mountain, where they stayed in hostels run by the shrine staff or yamabushi. The northern travelers participated in a similar series of purification rituals and abstentions before embarking on the climb. They passed through the large copper torii or gateway that marked the boundary between Lower and Upper Yoshida, stayed overnight in one of the oshi lodges, and completed additional cold-water

32  Chapter 1

ablutions before beginning their trek early the next morning at the Kitaguchi Sengen Shrine.34 Early seventeenth-century manuals describe in detail the protocols that the shrine personnel were expected to follow in supervising these pilgrims.35 One work, drawn up by a Shingon priest at the behest of a Yoshida pilgrimage agent, includes precise instructions for the travelers’ conduct before and during the journey—in particular, the length of periods of abstinence and cold-water purification to be carried out prior to the climb, and the measures to be followed after exposure to ritual defilements (such as the corpse of a deceased family member, or a menstruating woman). The text also contains diagrams of the purification wands (gohei) that the officiants were expected to use, the surplices they should wear, and descriptions of requisite mandalic and mudric exercises, including notations for pronouncing Sanskrit sound-syllables properly while performing mudras.36 The ritual activities of the oshi affiliated with the Kitaguchi Sengen Shrine were evidently grounded in a version of the same esoteric Buddhist heritage that infused religious protocols at the southern entry to the mountain.37 The maturation of pilgrimage activities on the mountain in the Edo period was a natural outgrowth of these and other practice trends at the southern and northern approaches to Mount Fuji. However, the Murayama center and the southern approach as a whole eventually lost ground in the face of the great popularization of the northern trails. A number of other contributing factors have also been suggested, such as the shifting political winds in the transition to the Tokugawa period. During the Sengoku period (1477–1573) the Murayama yamabushi had apparently provided military as well as religious service to the local domain lord.38 The daimyo Imagawa Yoshimoto (1519–1560) is said to have enlisted them in espionage activities (their religious status facilitated passage through domain barriers), but after he opposed Oda Nobunaga (1534–1582) and perished in the battle of Okehazama in 1560, the Murayama practitioners were discredited by association.39 In contrast, the Main Sengen Shrine, whose priests had prudently aligned themselves with Nobunaga’s forces, received special treatment under the new government. After Tokugawa Ieyasu (1542–1616) took over, he rebuilt one of the shrine buildings that had burned down during the Sengoku period, but for all practical purposes ignored Murayama.40 Mount Fuji Shugendō did not simply pass into oblivion. The head priests of the three Murayama subtemples, accompanied by several lower-ranked practitioners, continued to perform regular summer disciplines on the mountain every year, with the local villagers sharing responsibility for the expenses involved in these climbs and the associated proxy rituals (daisan).41 The yamabushi also continued to serve as mountain guides on the southern trail and to

Changing Pilgrimage Culture   33

pay home visits to their regular patrons, giving out talismans and performing prayer rituals as before.42 Under the third Tokugawa shogun, Iemitsu (1604– 1651), the three temples were duly allotted income from shogunal land parcels, which they used to defray the cost of temple maintenance and activities.43 Nevertheless, Shugendō activities on the southern side of Mount Fuji dwindled, especially after the late seventeenth century, when the Murayama complex lost status and property in the aftermath of a protracted land-rights dispute.44 Continuing tensions with the nearby Main Sengen Shrine over control of income derived from lodging and other pilgrim fees likely also contributed to the eclipse of Shugendō on the mountain.45 By the late eighteenth century, when the shogunate took up the issue of rights to Mount Fuji above the eighth station, Murayama was not even in the running.46 The most significant factor in the reconfiguration of Mount Fuji as a pilgrimage site in the seventeenth century, however, was undoubtedly the shift in popular interest to the climbing routes on the northern side of the mountain, especially the Yoshida trail, in the wake of the population explosion in nearby Edo.47 As we have seen, the shrines and temples that operated the pilgrimage facilities on Mount Fuji controlled the ritual knowledge and the physical access to the mountain that people needed in order to complete a proper pilgrimage as advocated by these establishments; the priests and yamabushi were authorized to exert this control, initially by local warlords in the medieval period and later by the Tokugawa shogunal and domain authorities. People who visited the mountain were thus required to adhere to specified behaviors and to commit their economic resources to these institutions (and by extension, to the government). However, during the seventeenth century, even as the Tokugawa authorities energetically solidified laws and mechanisms for regulating religious entities, changes in the social dynamics of pilgrimage were under way, not only at Mount Fuji, but in due course at devotional sites throughout Japan, such as Ise, Ōyama, and Konpira, to name a few.48 The demand for direct, informal types of socio­ religious experience, including group devotions and recreational travel (both of which pilgrimage seemed to offer), was on the rise among the working sectors of Japanese society—and visits to revered mountains were especially enticing. Early in the Tokugawa period mountain ascetics were organized into formal denominations under the supervision of designated Buddhist institutions, and it became more difficult for them to practice serious disciplines in the mountains without restrictions.49 However, the paradigm of the ascetic who engaged in uncompromising bodily disciplines in the mountains—whether numbing stints under waterfalls, treks across harsh mountain terrain, or prolonged confinement in murky caves—remained very much alive in the popular imagination. Over the

34  Chapter 1

course of the Edo period a number of dedicated individuals who were not affiliated with the Shugendō lines in any formal sense in fact established their own mountain regimens, often focused on a single mountain (or mountain range), and encouraged lay people like themselves to practice under their guidance. Especially after the expansion of transportation and means of communication in the early Edo period, pilgrimage groups (kō) centered on mountains took shape throughout Japan, in some cases inspired by these practice leaders—a phenomenon that eventually led to the appearance of devotional associations such as the Ontake kō, the Ōyama kō, the Togakushi kō, and of course, the Fuji kō.50 The initiatives of the founding figure of the Fuji religious group, Kakugyō Tōbutsu (1541?–1646), and his immediate followers, who were not originally affiliated with any existing religious institution, are emblematic of this religious activism in its incipient phase in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries.51 During this period Kakugyō is believed to have carried out a series of remarkable austerities in the vicinity of Mount Fuji. His best-known ascetic ordeals allegedly took place in Hitoana, a cave not far from Ōmiya and Murayama, but for climbing he is said to have preferred the northern trails. Indeed, the authors of Kakugyō’s hagiography The Book of Great Practice assert that the Mount Fuji deity ordered the ascetic to use the northern approach to the mountain.52 More realistically, as Endō Hideo suggests, Kakugyō probably avoided the omoteguchi and practiced on the northern side of the mountain because the Murayama mountain ascetics, who at the time enjoyed the protection of the domain lord of Suruga, tightly controlled the southern entrances and exits to the mountain.53 Given the paucity of historical documentation of Kakugyō’s activities, his precise relationship (or lack of it) with the various religious specialists in the Mount Fuji area must remain unclear for the time being. Considering the wellregulated nature of the pilgrimage enterprise on the southern trail, however, Endō’s insinuation that Kakugyō’s peregrinations were tacitly anti-establishmentarian is persuasive. Moreover, even after the Tokugawa transition Kakugyō’s followers apparently continued to have a vexed relationship with the Honzan-line mountain ascetics at Murayama, who were officially supervised by Shōgoin in Kyoto.54 The pilgrimage coordinators affiliated with the Sengen shrine in the north, however, may have been more disposed to accommodate these relatively self-directed Fuji practitioners. In fact, by the late seventeenth century some Yoshida oshi were themselves copractitioners or followers of Kakugyō’s successors. By the end of the eighteenth century, when the Fujikō movement was flourishing, its members constituted the majority of patron households (danka) supervised by Yoshida oshi.55

Changing Pilgrimage Culture   35

Cave Narratives and Their Modulations Pilgrimage may be considered a means of achieving oneness with a deity or revered figure who is associated with a particular site, or with the revered ground itself when that ground is believed to embody the divine or ultimate truth. According to a common model, the pilgrim traverses a specific route or terrain over a period of days or months, arrives at a designated site (or sites), enacts appropriate rituals there, and returns.56 In the case of Mount Fuji, by the end of the medieval period set itineraries for climbing the mountain had been in place for some time and were visually advocated to spectators and potential pilgrims with the help of maplike images. Each of these trails supplied an overarching framework for the ritual sequences in which climbers participated under the guidance of mountain guides and pilgrimage coordinators. In the Edo period people’s demand for access to the mountain and its deity continued to grow, however, and it was met not only through these organized, full-fledged ascents to the peak but also through various off-site “proxy” practices, including viewing devotional images of the mountain, reading stories of mountain experiences, and performing mimetic pilgrim rituals, including, later in the Tokugawa period, symbolic climbs up miniature Fuji mounds (fujizuka) that were built in the Edo area.57 Despite the increasing promotion of Mount Fuji as a travel site, however, during the early Edo period the religious interest in the mountain and the practices that it generated are best understood, I would argue, not only in terms of a destination-centered pilgrimage system. “Faith in Mount Fuji” (Fuji shinkō) in the broadest sense also involved a quest for personal communion with the mountain as a divine entity and for access to the power with which it was believed to be imbued. Practitioners of the most dedicated variety, as Kakugyō Tōbutsu and his immediate followers have been portrayed, sought a focused bodily experience of the mountain along the lines of the ascetic ideal associated with Shugendō. These individuals purportedly underwent painful physical ordeals that forced them into intimate relationship with Mount Fuji’s rocky terrain, dark grottoes, frigid waters, and, not least, meteorological vicissitudes—all features of the mountain that were evidently “filled with a meaning to be discovered.”58 An important discipline practiced by Japanese mountain ascetics is bodily confinement, komori. This type of ritual seclusion was a prominent leitmotif in the culture of Mount Fuji—it was depicted in narratives about the mountain’s caves and eventually regularized in Fujikō practice. The basic meaning of “komoru” is to conceal, insert, or shut oneself into a container, hole, hut, cave, or other enclosed space. Incidents of bodily concealment recur frequently in

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the Japanese ancient chronicles and early literature. A well-known locus classicus is the eighth-century Kojiki account of the sun goddess Amaterasu hiding herself in a cave in reaction to her brother Susano-o’s disruptive behavior.59 In a religious context “komori” came to mean confinement in a shrine or hermitage for purposes of concentrated prayer, meditation, and purification, whether by practitioners formally associated with a religious institution or by wandering ascetics.60 Being cloistered for a length of time in a dark, confined space, whether a natural cave or a constructed enclosure, would likely be a challenging experience—fear of the dark, of the unknown, of suffocating or being buried alive might all come into play. In Japan in particular, caves and dark chambers were traditionally associated with the underworld, the dwelling place of the dead; they were depicted in literature as unfamiliar, repulsive places, to be avoided but also somehow confronted in order to transform oneself spiritually.61 The act of deliberately entering a murky, underground hollow and remaining in it for a specified period of time indeed lends itself well to a rite de passage interpretation: the individual is tested, emptied of self-centered impulses, and thereby reaches a greater level of maturity.62 In the premodern Japanese version, however, the dominant emphasis was not simply on self-development but also on self-denial or indemnity for the sake of a larger collective. Much like standing under a frigid waterfall or dousing oneself with buckets of freezing cold water (mizugori), shutting oneself in a dark enclosure was ostensibly aimed at accumulating sufficient spiritual merit and power to help others. Given Japan’s topography, mountain caves were a natural and convenient choice for exercises of this kind, and especially with the development of Shugendō into an organized system the use of caves for such purposes became more or less regularized.63 Mountains are often pictured as massive accumulations of earth and rock that extend upward through the atmosphere—the so-called axis mundi64—but in fact it is often the invisible core of the mountain, deep inside, that dominates the religious imagination. Mountain caverns and hollows are imputed with religious meaning in any number of cultures—the Maya, for example, believed that mountains were the gateways to the underworld, the sources of earth and water, and the residences of the gods; their caves accordingly served as important ritual venues.65 In ancient China mountain caves were considered wellsprings of lifegiving energy (qi), and the notion that one could acquire special powers in these natural chambers was richly elaborated in later Daoist communities.66 In Japan especially the volcanic nature of many caves may have encouraged their association with the cultivation of spiritual power. Archaeologists have confirmed that the hollows left behind by lava flows were sites of religious practice in Japan from

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at least the Nara period, and they continued to supply vital spaces for mountain ascetics up to the modern period.67 Many of Japan’s lava caves (reportedly 122) are in fact clustered on the lower slopes of Mount Fuji.68 Mount Fuji reaches a height of 3,776 meters above sea level. Given the low temperatures, snow, and unstable weather conditions on its upper reaches for much of the year, in medieval times even trained ascetics and mountain guides probably concentrated their activities on the lower slopes, below the tree line, and therefore in these caves.69 The volcanic hollows supplied important practice venues for the Fuji practitioners of the Edo period as well, at first as spaces for the solitary ordeals of its early leaders and later in the period as sites for organized group visits. The Fujikō founding figure, Kakugyō, allegedly performed multiple cold-water austerities in lakes and waterfalls, but as noted he is best known for his arduous cave practices. Most of these feats are said to have occurred in a relatively spacious underground cavern called Hitoana, where Kakugyō reportedly lived for periods of time and ultimately passed away. Indeed, as Royall Tyler has observed, the subterranean hollow plays a more conspicuous role in the canonical narrative of the founder’s religious life than does the summit of the mountain itself.70 It should be noted, however, that the emphasis on Hitoana in Kakugyō’s hagiography The Book of Great Practice may also reflect the predilections of its late Tokugawa compilers, who sought to characterize Kakugyō’s heroic stints in the forbidding cave as defining events in his ascetic career. Hitoana (literally, “human hole”) is located about twenty kilometers north of the city center of Fujinomiya (the location of the Main Sengen Shrine) in Mount Fuji’s southwestern foothills (see plate 1). The cave opens out in a southwesterly direction onto a clearing full of devotional stone markers dedicated to the god of Mount Fuji and commemorating past Fuji religious practitioners.71 The interior of Hitoana extends back about seventy meters (including a bend in the middle), and at points reaches as many as six meters in height and about ten across.72 The cave was traditionally believed to be imbued with mysterious power; it is first mentioned in this vein in the late Kamakura–period chronicle Azuma kagami.73 The text relates that during a shogunal hunt in the cave’s vicinity in the early thirteenth century a Minamoto retainer named Nitta Tadatsune (also known as Nita-no-Shirō; d. 1203) was ordered to explore the cave. He entered along with five other men, provoking a hair-raising encounter with the fierce resident deity of the mountain (Asama, also called Sengen); only Nitta and one other warrior made it out alive.74 Evidently by this time Hitoana was regarded as an entry into the very heart of the mountain, the dwelling place of its god. It is described in the narrative as murky and narrow, with a large stream flowing through it, and swarming with

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bats. Later versions of the tale played up these eerie qualities, amplifying the uninviting reputation of the cave. Most notable in this regard is the otogizōshi story Fuji no hitoana sōshi (The Tale of the Fuji Cave). In the late Muromachi period the story and accompanying illustrations were probably used by preaching nuns and monks, mountain ascetics, and other Buddhist-oriented raconteurs and mendicant entertainers to advocate the religious path and solicit alms.75 The narrative clearly takes inspiration from the Azuma kagami story of Nitta’s adventure (or perhaps from a shared earlier source), but by the early sixteenth century it had evolved into a full-fledged jigoku meguri or hell-tour tale, a genre that proliferated in Japan from the mid-fourteenth through early seventeenth centuries.76 In this embellished later version, Nitta Tadatsune enters Hitoana alone and in exchange for offering his sword to the deity, the Great Bodhisattva Asama, he receives a guided tour of the cave—which turns out to be the next world. He is shown in unsparing detail the gamut of horrific punishments meted out in the afterlife to sinners who have fallen into the lower tiers of the Six Karmic Realms.77 The tone of the narrative is intensely moralistic and sharply judgmental, especially with regard to women, who are repeatedly characterized as innately evil and impure. To cite one relatively minor example, women who “make up their faces with rouge and white foundation that they bought in secret from men” are said to be punished for fifty thousand kalpas by demons who peel off the sinners’ skin and dribble hot oil on the raw flesh underneath.78 The god of Mount Fuji is also described in terms designed to alarm the reader or listener. Asama comes across for the most part as a disturbing and frightening being: “It was a snake with eyes like the sun and the moon, and a mouth so red that it seemed to have been daubed with paint. A full twenty fathoms long, it had sixteen horns and a hundred and eight eyes. Its flaming breath rose up a thousand feet in the air. The sight of it flicking its scarlet tongue was enough to make Nitta’s hair stand on end.”79 These details lent themselves well to the vividly illustrated versions of the Tale that were published in the early Tokugawa period (see plate 2). As we shall see, Asama’s successor, Sengen, the god who surfaces in Fujikō religious discourse, is eminently more human and, one might say, humane, than this menacing creature. The Tale of the Fuji Cave began to circulate widely in woodblock-print editions in the late seventeenth century, during the same period in which pilgrims to Mount Fuji from various regions in central Japan began to multiply significantly.80 By this time Fuji devotional practices, such as water cleansing rituals (called fujigori), were being performed not only in the foothills of the mountain as preliminaries to the climb itself but also mimetically in other parts of Japan, notably in the Kansai region and in areas north and east of Edo.81 The fujigori

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practices at a distance from the mountain were considered a substitute for the ablutions that pilgrims to Mount Fuji ordinarily enacted in Wakutama Pond at Ōmiya, or at the Ryūzu water purification site (mizugoriba) at Murayama (­figure  1.1). A 1676 record called Hinami kiji, for example, relates that people were practicing fujigori on the banks of the Kamo River in Kyoto at the time.82 They apparently conducted these devotions and sometimes also commissioned Fuji gyōnin or ascetic practitioners (most likely Murayama yamabushi) to perform proxy pilgrimages to the mountain, in either case in order to acquire the merit of having climbed the mountain themselves. Koyama Issei has argued persuasively that the popularization of The Tale of the Fuji Cave in the early Edo period is related to the contemporaneous broadening of regional interest in pilgrimage to Mount Fuji. The Tale, as we have seen, is dominated by graphic exhortations to readers to atone for their sins and thereby to ensure their rebirth in a Pure Land–type paradise in the next life. People who could not make the pilgrimage to the mountain apparently came to believe that, much as performing water rituals at a distance from Mount Fuji, the act of simply reading or hearing the story of Nitta’s hell-tour in Hitoana could dispel their karmic impediments to salvation just as well as climbing the mountain.83 The Tale itself makes this idea explicit. A 1607 version of the text unambiguously informs readers that copying, reading, or reciting it has the same merit as

Figure 1.1.  Murayama water-purification site (mizugoriba), with an image of Fudō Myōō near the upper water conduit. Murayama Sengen Shrine, Fujinomiya, Shizuoka Prefecture. Photograph by the author.

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climbing Mount Fuji: a vicarious stint in the literary cave, as it were, would expiate their sinful baggage and engender spiritual renewal to the same extent as an in-person journey to the peak.84 In other words, in this view the Tale was not only a didactic tract or a miracle story inspired by past warrior exploits but also an expiatory talisman, insofar as it was thought to be endowed with the capacity to expel people’s karmic obstructions.85 Buddhist-inspired storybooks of the time were not infrequently ascribed beneficial ritual powers in this way, much as were sutras and other religious texts.86 The description of Kakugyō Tōbutsu’s ascetic practice in Hitoana in his hagiography The Book of Great Practice (Gotaigyō no maki) is worth contemplation at this juncture insofar as it seems to draw, however loosely, on strains of thought about the cave and its deity that are intimated in the medieval lore discussed above. Specifically, The Tale of the Fuji Cave and The Book of Great Practice both depict Hitoana as a harrowing but ultimately salvific place. The Book was probably compiled during the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century, when pilgrimage to the mountain and Fujikō activities were burgeoning. Accordingly, although its authors may well have drawn on material that originated earlier, the text must be used with great caution as a source of information about Kakugyō and his activities, and perhaps most fruitfully as a record of the interests of the Fujikō members of that later time.87 In the Book the semilegendary founder of Shugendō, En no Gyōja (late seventh century), advises Kakugyō to carry out austerities in Hitoana in order to bring about peace in the country. However, when [Kakugyō] asked a villager (where to find) the Hitoana, the villager said, “Yes, there is a place called the Hitoana, but it has always been our village’s deity (kono tokoro no ujigami) and one must not enter it. No one who has gone in has ever come out again. For this reason, none of the local people would dream of going into it. If you do so, sickness will immediately strike our village, plagues will blight the crops on wet fields and dry, the five grains will fail to ripen, and no one will come near the place again. . . . No, you must not enter this cave.”88 After further prayer Kakugyō nonetheless vows to enter Hitoana in order carry out the ascetic practice with which he had been commissioned, come what may. In the end he braves the depths of the cavern and proceeds to carry out his first “great practice” (taigyō), which involves standing on his toes on a square wooden block and dousing himself with cold water three times a day and three times at night, without sleeping, for a period of one thousand days.89 Thereafter,

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according to the narrative, Kakugyō made Hitoana his main practice venue, where he conducted repeated lengthy regimens of bodily self-denial. For Tyler, Nitta’s hell-tour in The Tale of the Fuji Cave, the local villager’s warnings to Kakugyō in the Book not to enter it, and Kakugyō’s own references to it as the Pure Land, “all mark the Hitoana as a realm of the spirits and the dead.”90 The fact that the cave is in the western foothills of Mount Fuji and opens out toward the west is also significant in this interpretation. Amida Buddha was widely believed to welcome the spirits of the faithful into his western Pure Land at the moment of their death, and Hitoana may have seemed an eminently suitable gateway to the next world.91 Because of its contrasting associations, however, the cave remains a topos of some ambiguity in these narratives. Both the Tale and the Book depict Hitoana as the ingress to a dark and possibly dangerous realm, but both also hold out hope that, perhaps with the help of Asama/Sengen, one can successfully circumvent the agonies of the underworld and attain salvation or spiritual merit. The individual must only be willing to remain in the dank, bat-infested underground for a set period of time and thereby overcome what could be interpreted as one’s own demons. References to Hitoana in the texts generated by the emerging Fuji movement seem to favor the optimistic strain in this complex of attitudes toward the cave. The site was regarded principally as a point of entry to the mountain itself and thereby to the beneficial power of Sengen, and in this sense nominally identified with access to a Pure Land heaven. Instead of invoking the tortuous punishments that awaited sinners in the afterworld, in their writings and drawings the Fuji practitioners of the early Edo period simply labeled the cave “Pure Land.”92 Kakugyō Tōbutsu’s ritual diagrams of Mount Fuji (treated in the next section) also do not clearly refer to a hierarchy of karmic realms in the afterlife, as depicted in the Tale and much other didactic Buddhist literature and art of his time. Rather, his drawings position the cave in or near the lower axis of the mountain, along with indicators such as “the open gate to Hitoana” or “paradise and hell are in this cave, the gate to the Pure Land, Hitoana.”93 Kakugyō’s fourthgeneration successor, Getsugan (Maeno Rihei, 1630–1689), similarly inserted the designator “Pure Land Mountain” near Hitoana in his depiction of Mount Fuji.94 Jikigyō Miroku followed suit in the early eighteenth century, marking the cave as “Pure Land” in at least one ritual image attributed to him.95 In the new Fuji devotional community Hitoana thus seems to have been regarded in an auspicious light as an entry into the heart of Mount Fuji and thereby to the beneficial power of Sengen. The cave is conflated in some practitioners’ writings with a blissful Pure Land paradise, but not with an underworld after death. This affirmative rhetorical trend strengthened as pilgrimage

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activities on the northern side of the mountain expanded in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.96 Even though the retrospective account of Kakugyō’s cave practices in the Book differs greatly in tone and basic content from the adventure stories in Azuma kagami and The Tale of the Fuji Cave, it recalls and further develops the popular conception of the cave as a point of access to the divine power of Mount Fuji and as a venue of personal transformation. By dint of his extraordinary acts of bodily self-denial, the great Fuji ascetic—in contrast to the warriors who brave Hitoana in the medieval narratives—ultimately overcomes spiritual and physical obstacles and gains full access to the power and truth of the mountain deity, even taking up residence in the god’s cave. By inflecting Kakugyō’s life story in this way, the editors of the Book (which attained near scriptural status in Fujikō in the late Tokugawa period) implicitly asserted the authority and legitimacy of the movement’s origins. For most members of the Fuji religious movement, however, the mountain’s southwestern cave became more important as an emblem of the ascetic quest than as an actual practice site. Some dedicated mountain guides continued to practice at Hitoana and other locations associated with Kakugyō Tōbutsu, including the nearby Shiraito Falls (figure 1.2). However, as the Tokugawa period wore on the underground cavern seems to have inspired relatively modest

Figure 1.2.  Shiraito Falls. Fujinomiya, Shizuoka Prefecture. Photograph by the author.

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activity in comparison with sites on the northern side of the mountain, such as Gotainai.97 Especially after the southern route to Mount Fuji lost ground to the northern trails, fewer pilgrims ventured in the direction of Hitoana, which was located even further from Edo than Ōmiya and Murayama. With the massive expansion of the pilgrimage in general in the last decades of the Tokugawa period the site began to attract more visitors, according to some accounts.98 Nevertheless, the local Akaike clan (whose members assert a special connection with Kakugyō as well as hereditary prerogatives over the Hitoana site) apparently felt the need to revive interest in the associated southern approach to the mountain. Yamamoto Shino informs us that in the early nineteenth century the family issued a single-sheet abridgement of The Tale of the Fuji Cave that distinctly deemphasized the cave’s unpleasant aspects.99

Shifting Visions of Mount Fuji In addition to generalized Pure Land beliefs, mediated forms of esoteric Buddhism played an integral role in the matrix of practices and ideas that gave birth to the new Fuji religion. In the ritual manuals utilized by the Yoshida oshi of the northern approach that I mentioned in the first section of this chapter, the crater of Mount Fuji is identified with Dainichi, the great esoteric buddha who sits in the center of the eight lotus petals of the Womb Realm Mandala.100 Detailed correlations between Mount Fuji and Dainichi’s retinue of buddhas and bodhisattvas, along with their corresponding kami manifestations (suijaku), are carefully set out in these works.101 But prescriptive manuals are by no means the only source of evidence that correlative exoteric-esoteric (kenmitsu) patterns of thought and practice loomed large in the culture of Mount Fuji pilgrimage in the early Edo period. Pictorial records show that the paradigm of an all-encompassing buddha-like deity who operated in the form of a potent kami dominated the ritual and aesthetic sensibilities of Fuji devotees at the time. In particular, the visual culture associated with devotion to the mountain during the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries suggests that the practitioners who laid the foundations of the later mass movement—Kakugyō and the first few generations of his followers—adapted these combinative conceptualizations of the mountain to suit emerging ritual needs. Mount Fuji’s image was of course idealized long before group pilgrimage to the crater became an identifiable trend in the medieval and early modern periods—whether as a malleable aesthetic object for artists and poets, or as a perceived source of fertility and power among the rural communities in its vicinity.102 But it was particularly in the sixteenth century that religious

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interpretations of the mountain’s image began to proliferate. These renditions were used (and in some cases produced) by various interested parties—mountain ascetics, pilgrimage coordinators, Sengen Shrine priests, itinerant preachers, and in due course lay consortia of pilgrims and hometown devotees—to inspire prospective climbers, solicit alms, and serve as ritual aids. The visual interpretations of Mount Fuji generated by these sometimes overlapping groups reveal both consensus and contestation over the meaning of the shared religious site. I refer here especially to developments in the universe of Fuji religious images during the transition from the medieval to the early Edo period: most prominent is a shift from spectator-oriented display to ritual utility and hands-on portability. The aim was no longer only to visit the mountain and engage in special practices under the guidance of religious professionals, perhaps with the hope of dissolving one’s karmic impediments to future salvation in a Pure Land paradise, but increasingly also to gain personal access to Mount Fuji’s power in order to solve immediate life concerns. At first these new images were spontaneously created and employed by dedicated practitioners, but by the late Edo period they were based on set models and diffused on a large scale by Sengen Shrine oshi and Fujikō members. An important stratum in the progressive sedimentation of Mount Fuji’s image as an object of devotion, which provided the visual foundation for these later products, is represented by the distinctive Japanese genre of religious art known as “pilgrimage mandalas” (sankei mandara). These paintings of revered Japanese topoi are closely related to the earlier genre of “shrine mandalas” (miya or suijaku mandara) that identify revered “holy grounds” (seichi) with specific gods and buddhas, sometimes indicated in a combinatory fashion following the “essence and trace” (honji suijaku) model. The pilgrimage mandalas, which came into vogue in the sixteenth century, distinctively set out not only the religious institution itself and the buddhas, bodhisattvas, or kami who were worshipped there but also human figures conducting devotions at the site and in some cases engaging in recreational or commercial activities in the immediate vicinity.103 During the medieval and early modern periods itinerant proselytizers often carried hanging scrolls or hand scrolls of illustrated Buddhist narratives, hagiographies, popular tales, and origin stories (engi), and unfurled them in public preaching sites as the occasion demanded. This “explanation of pictures” (etoki) was ostensibly aimed at conveying Buddhist teachings and soliciting alms, even if the narratives were not always concerned with Buddhist doctrine per se.104 Moreover, in some cases the pictures were not regarded simply as teaching tools

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but also as spiritually powerful items that could inspire awe when displayed or performed by wandering etoki preachers. Sankei mandara served the same proselytizing and fundraising purposes—although not all lent themselves to narrative exposition in the manner of well-known etoki works such as the Kumano kanshin jikkai mandara or the Tateyama mandara. The sixteenth-century paintings of Mount Fuji that are discussed below are a case in point. They no doubt excited interest in the pilgrimage as well as reverence for the deities thought to dwell at the peak, but they also projected to viewers, however imaginatively, a terrestrial itinerary. They served primarily as inspirational maps that prompted prospective visitors to undertake the journey (or send a representative in their stead), and, as part of that commitment, to give donations to the religious professionals who exhibited the images on behalf of the associated pilgrimage establishment. Mount Fuji pilgrimage mandalas (Fuji sankei mandara) began to appear after religious travel to the mountain grew popular in the Muromachi period under the influence of Murayama Shugendō and the neighboring Main Sengen Shrine.105 The images differ in detail depending on the contexts of their production and usage, but they typically center on the shrine and temple precincts through which the pilgrims, dressed in their customary white garb and headgear, passed on their way up the mountain. The best-known exemplars are a pair of paintings on silk held in the collection of the Main Shrine in Fujinomiya-shi, both of which have been dated to the sixteenth century. The larger work, designated an “Important Cultural Property” of Japan in 1977, is attributed to the atelier of Kanō Motonobu (1476–1559; see plate 3).106 The painting shows the mountain from the southern perspective or front approach (omoteguchi) and focuses, in the middle third of the picture, on the facilities of the Murayama Shugendō complex and the Main Shrine, along with human figures making their way through the grounds and up the trail. Suruga Bay and the Tōkaidō are indicated in the lower foreground, with the peak rising high in the upper third of the painting. The quality and dimensions of this work suggest that it was not moved around and displayed in pubic venues in the way ordinarily associated with more portable works of the sankei mandara genre. A smaller Fuji sankei mandara (a “Tangible Cultural Property” of Shizuoka Prefecture) similarly exaggerates selected areas of interest along the southern trail (see plate 4). The painting’s relatively modest dimensions and the creases along its length suggest that it was folded for transportation or storage, although it may have been used only occasionally for public proselytizing. The Main Shrine occupies the central third of the picture, while the lower tier highlights

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details related to the pilgrims’ arrival near Suruga Bay (such as their passage through the toll barrier) and other preparations for their journey to the summit. In this version, however, the peak recedes into the distance in the top third of the painting and the climbing path does not appear at all, nor do any pilgrims making their way along the upper trail.107 In fact, most of the figures in the painting (of which there are 198, by Ōtaka Yasumasa’s count) are not ordinary pilgrims; several are shrine priests, some are mountain ascetics, and a good number (especially those in the lower stratum) are not intrinsically related to the pilgrimage at all.108 In short, the prefectural mandala, even more than the Kanō painting, elides the substance of the climb and focuses on an envisioned experience at or near the shrine-temple complex at the foot of the mountain. Ōtaka argues on the basis of several discrepancies in the topography and shrine layout that even though this pilgrimage mandala was clearly intended for viewing by prospective pilgrims, it may have been created offsite or perhaps used at a distance from Mount Fuji in order to inspire people to visit or support the Main Sengen Shrine rather than actually climb the mountain.109 Like the medieval proselytizers associated with other religious sites, such as the Kumano storytelling nuns (Kumano bikuni), the itinerant proxies of the hostels at Ōmiya and Murayama probably used visual displays of this kind as outreach tools. These spokespersons aimed not only to provide prospective pilgrims with an idea of the route and of the associated protocols but also to persuade them that the journey would bring them, through successive stages, closer to the Mount Fuji deity and the realm of salvation.110 Even prospective pilgrims who were not very literate could acquire from these imagined landscapes a good sense of how their participation in the various ritual stages of the climb, beginning in the shrine precincts and progressing further under the supervision of mountain guides (sendatsu), would lead them up into the buddha realm, which was visually correlated for them with the peak.111 Most of the extant pilgrimage views of Mount Fuji of this period include clear references to the Buddhist deities reigning at the summit, along with other iconographic elements that are standard in pilgrimage mandalas, such as the sun and moon.112 The Kanō painting is especially effective in conveying the idea of a culminating spiritual experience at the crater that is identifiable with the Amida triad and/or Dainichi Buddha of the Diamond and Womb Realms.113 These relatively elaborate types of Fuji mandala may well have served as a kind of substitute pilgrimage for people (especially women, who were not ordinarily permitted to climb the mountain), much as did the aforementioned Tale of the Fuji Cave or the miniature Fuji replicas that were built in the Edo area during the late Tokugawa period.114

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Unlike more narratively oriented pilgrimage mandalas, however, the Mount Fuji versions do not overtly conflate sites on the mountain with specific otherworldly experiences—for the most part they do not display either demons and hellish pits or blissful paradises.115 Indeed, the Hitoana cave, whose eerie chambers figure so prominently in the hell-tour literature that originated in approximately the same period, is nowhere to be seen in these early itineraries. Both of the Fuji pilgrimage paintings discussed above are more aesthetic and inspirational than moralistic in aim. They interpret the mountain pilgrimage as an uplifting and salvific experience rather than as a time for reckoning with one’s karmic errors. Moreover, judging from these works, as in other popular religious sites of the time a generous degree of entertainment, ostensibly performed for alms, was an expected feature of the travelers’ itinerary as they approached the shrine-temple precincts proper. In the prefectural mandala in particular we see a monkey-trainer, a biwa-playing priest, and a gong striker, among other characters.116 Viewers would have grasped from such details that the journey to Mount Fuji promised “extras”—musical performances, divination, the services of a shaman, rhythmic chanting, and other semirecreational activities. The itinerant professionals who cultivated patrons and raised funds for the Sengen and Murayama institutions undoubtedly promoted these aspects of the Mount Fuji experience along with the virtues of the climb itself.117 At the same time, if we take these sixteenth-century Fuji mandalas at face value they confirm that the pilgrims of the time remained fundamentally in a passive position vis-à-vis their mountain guides and pilgrimage coordinators. The paintings corroborate evidence from textual sources that the people who visited Mount Fuji on its southern side during this period were expected to carry out their devotions strictly under the auspices of the establishments that controlled the trail, namely, the Main Sengen Shrine and the Shugendō complex. The visual emphasis is on activities at defined spots, such as ritual cleansing in Wakutama Pond in the Main Shrine precincts and in Ryūzu Falls at Murayama, and always within the ambit of shrine priests and yamabushi. The pilgrimage mandalas served, then, not only to entice prospective pilgrims to visit the mountain and/or to solicit alms but also to structure the visitors’ experiences of the mountain—that is, to modulate their expectations and to set boundaries. True to their maplike nature, the images obscure or completely omit areas that the makers deemed outside the purview of their envisioned audience, and visually confine representative figures to selected places on the imagined mountain.118 The most obvious example in the sixteenthcentury paintings is the absence of women from the upper tiers of the mountain, marking the exclusion of female pilgrims from the climb.119 The Kanō painting displays several female visitors in pilgrimage dress proceeding through the initial

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stages of the journey; the only other women (in both mandalas) seem to be the miko (shrine ritualists), dressed in red-and-white vesture.120 Several pilgrimage images of Mount Fuji produced in the early Edo period similarly focus on the details of the Main Sengen Shrine and the initial portion of the southern trail. However, other devotional interpretations of the mountain belong to a mandala subgenre that is less oriented toward the pilgrimage process itself. The most distinctive (and perhaps earliest) extant example is the Sanzon kuson zu, also issued by the Main Sengen Shrine (see plate 5).121 This image of the mountain, rendered in black ink, was conceivably hung for viewing, but it is quite small and was probably not intended for display to large groups. It is compact enough to have been rolled up and carried about on one’s person, much as were the later Fujikō images, discussed below. In fact the Sanzon kuson zu includes neither climbing trails nor pilgrims—it has more the look of a devotional image (miei) than of a pilgrimage mandala or a visionary map. Nevertheless, the work conforms with the format of a shrine-temple mandala (shaji sankei mandara) in that it correlates a revered site with its deities; and although it does not adopt an elevated perspective (as do many pilgrimage mandalas), it arguably suggests a progression from the bottom of the mountain, marked by the shrine, to the deities at the top, in the manner of the fullscale pilgrimage paintings. In the uppermost stratum of the work we accordingly see the Amida triad, with the nine buddhas and bodhisattvas of the Womb Mandala lined up directly below. Mount Fuji itself occupies the middle third of the picture flanked, again as was common in sankei mandara, by images of the sun and the moon.122 The most striking element of the composition, however, is the large hōin or “precious seal” superimposed on the mountain. It is centered on the syllable vaṃ (written in siddhaṃ script), which serves here to identify Mount Fuji with Mahāvairocana (Dainichi) Buddha, the central figure of the Diamond Realm in esoteric Buddhism. The lowest third of the picture adds two monkeys facing each other across a grove of trees that surround the shrine hall, and, at the very bottom, a torii that marks the approach to the latter. If, as is likely, the Sanzon kuson zu dates to the early or mid-Edo period, we can safely regard this complex of religious signifiers, which is organized by an esoteric-exoteric conception of Mount Fuji as an “original ground” (honji) buddha who manifests in the world as multifarious “trace” (suijaku) deities, as representative of the variegated nature of the devotionalism that the Main Sengen Shrine and the Murayama establishment continued to promote. Indeed, the picture summarizes several key features of the Tokugawa religious universe (or a variant of it) as a whole: a blend of Pure Land and esoteric Buddhist ideas; reverence for a

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central kami (in this case the mountain god, Asama or Sengen); a cosmology ordered by the cyclical forces of yang and yin (sun and moon); customary notions of territorial sacrality (marked by the torii and tall trees); and belief in the working of spiritual forces associated with the ritual calendar (in this instance the monkeys, which are an allusion to the origins of Mount Fuji in a kōshin year).123 As we have seen, the operation on the southern side of the mountain was gradually overshadowed by climbing activity in the north, especially along the trail administered by the Kitaguchi Sengen Shrine of Yoshida, and the preponderance of extant pilgrimage pictures of the mountain from late in the Edo period focus on the northern approach.124 One image, however, offers a rare rendition of this view in the seventeenth century, before the new Fuji movement had become widespread (figure 1.3).125 As if echoing the earlier Fuji sankei mandara paintings that focus on the Main Sengen Shrine and the Shugendō complex, Hachiyō kuson zu adopts an elevated perspective, in this case beginning with the shrine in the lower register and moving up through natural surroundings, lodges, and other shrine-related structures on the way to the summit. It also displays the usual nine buddhas and bodhisattvas of the esoteric mandala in the upper tier and the eight-petaled lotus in the center.126 In contrast to the late medieval paintings, however, Hachiyō kuson zu is a rudimentary drawing, blockprinted and probably distributed on a large scale to mark the occasion of the kōshin year 1680. The size of the work and the relative simplicity of its production process resemble those of the Sanzon kuson zu, although the Hachiyō kuson zu retains some features of a pilgrimage image, including a route and place-names as opposed to iconic symbols per se. Another woodblock print, Fujisan hachiyō kuson, likely also produced in 1680 under the auspices of the Kitaguchi Sengen Shrine, similarly depicts Dainichi Buddha surrounded by his mandalic retinue but is devoid of reference to the pilgrimage landscape (figure 1.4).127 These three block-printed images (Sanzon kuson zu, Hachiyō kuson zu, and Fujisan hachiyō kuson), which emerged in the distinct institutional contexts of the southern and northern approaches to the mountain, indicate that the medieval pilgrimage aesthetic and its esoteric Buddhist underpinnings continued to be reiterated in Mount Fuji religious art through at least the first half of the Edo period. Yet these relatively simple prints, almost diagrammatic in appearance, are quite unlike the large pilgrimage mandalas reviewed above, with their purposeful and sometimes exquisite renditions of the protocols expected along the travelers’ route. In contrast to the more elaborate Fuji sankei mandara, the small blockprinted images are portable icons or even talismans, likely meant for individual and small group use. The contrast between the two types of Fuji art might

Figure 1.3.  Hachiyō kuson zu. Woodblock print on paper. 40.5 by 28 cm. 1680. Shōfukuji Collection. Courtesy of Fujisan Myūjiamu, Fujiyoshida.

Changing Pilgrimage Culture   51

Figure 1.4.  Fujisan hachiyō kuson. Woodblock print on paper. 52 by 28.5 cm. 1680. Shōfukuji Collection. Courtesy of Fujisan Myūjiamu, Fujiyoshida.

reasonably be dismissed as a function of the intended audience and social context in each case. However, the relative prominence of these distinct subgenres of devotional art at different historical moments is nonetheless a valuable indicator of how the mountain was reimagined during the late Muromachi-early Edo transition. The block-printed kuson mandalas represent a new phase in the visual appropriations of the mountain that were generated over time by diverse socio­ religious interests. They overlapped in aim with the more ostentatious pilgrimage mandalas in that they, too, were designed to promote the religious value of the mountain to prospective visitors or devotees. The smaller size and abbreviated iconography of the prints also suggest, however, an interest in convenient encapsulation of religious meaning, anticipating a trend toward broader dissemination and commodification of these kinds of items in the second half of the Tokugawa period. The appearance of cost-effective visual works that Fujikō members would later distribute on a wide scale was part of this trend.

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Kakugyō’s Bodily Extractions The production of visual replicas of the mountain has been a characteristic feature of Mount Fuji devotional culture throughout its history, and the graphic materials produced by the founding members of the new Fuji movement in the late sixteenth and seventeenth century are among the most distinctive and intriguing in this corpus. Like the Muromachi pilgrimage mandalas, these works were religiously inspired depictions of Mount Fuji, but they were not visionary itineraries targeted at prospective pilgrims and donors, and only in some circumstances did they function as icons in their own right (unlike the later miei or mandalic portraits of Fuji teachers).128 They served primarily as ritual instruments meant for small-scale use.129 Moreover, in spite of the tenacity of Buddhist symbology in Fuji devotionalism in general, as represented by the kuson prints discussed above, in the proto-Fujikō images, as we shall see, the mountain is no longer a hallowed topography that one might traverse in order to attain religious salvation in communion with buddhas and bodhisattvas. Judging from the images produced by Kakugyō and his successors, their followers were not being invited to contemplate a ritual journey that would culminate in Amida’s Pure Land, or to conceptualize the mountain as an embodiment of Dainichi, the essential-ground buddha (honjibutsu). These emerging Fuji “mandalas” for the most part omit or downplay images of Buddhist deities—although they are acknowledged by name in some seventeenth-century versions. The Fuji group’s devotional art retained the idea of an all-powerful deity, but rather than Dainichi or Amida, in these works the mountain itself takes center stage. The new genre of Fuji images originated with the founding figure, Kakugyō Tōbutsu. He is believed to have been active in the Mount Fuji area during the late medieval and early Edo periods, when, as we have seen, shrine priests and mountain guides affiliated with the Sengen-Murayama establishment dominated activities along the southern approach to Mount Fuji. It is not implausible that Kakugyō had operated as a kanjin hijiri or wandering religious mendicant earlier in his life, whether to make a subsistence living on his own or on behalf of an organized alms campaign. Given the preponderance of mendicant performers and ritual professionals who circulated in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries we can at least surmise that he had been exposed to the ceremonial skills and tools that made up the alms solicitation repertoire of the time, including pictorial storytelling (etoki) and related arts.130 Kakugyō’s visual works strongly suggest that he was familiar with the general appearance of pilgrimage mandalas. His innovation was to create, in effect, his own mountain mandalas and to use them in outreach activities among the rural population in the Fuji

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catchment area as well as further afield. These works are the most dependable sources of information about Kakugyō’s practices and ideas to which we have access; there is little doubt of his authorship.131 The ritual images and scripts in Kakugyō’s oeuvre were allegedly revealed to him by Sengen, the god of Mount Fuji, during or directly after he completed his regimens of fasting, cold-water purification, and continuous standing, among other disciplines.132 Most of these writings are composed of line drawings and strings of text. They provide an excellent example of the vitality of word-image integration in cultural products created not by professional artists but by ordinary people in premodern Japan as well. They also offer clues to the linguistic and sonic as well as visual dimensions of Japanese religious life, both during Kakugyō’s lifetime and among the succeeding generations of his followers, who used these writings as templates for their own ritual culture and praxis throughout the Edo period. These unique artifacts, called ominuki, are not Japanese or Sino-Japanese writings in the ordinary sense. Their ideographic content suggests motifs in the religious culture of the Fuji community, but the texts do not consist of doctrinal expositions, narratives, allegories, or any other conventional literary form. The script is mainly Chinese characters interspersed with occasional kana syllables, and as such appears to belong to a standard genre of Tokugawa Japanese writing. Yet upon closer examination most of the lines of characters do not form coherent thoughts: they are not “sentences.” Furthermore, a good number of the individual characters that appear in the ominuki corpus are entirely outside the Japanese lexical stock of the time—taken individually they do not point to any publically recognized referents. I argue in the next chapter that the content of the ominuki nonetheless did function as language on several levels. Before turning to the semiotic and performative aspects of these works, however, a word is in order regarding their visual design. A key aesthetic strategy of the ominuki is the arrangement of the text in such a way as to evoke an image of Mount Fuji. Most of the exemplars consist of vertical lines of ideographs loosely organized, often with the help of a rudimentary line drawing, into the shape of the volcano. This calligram-like layout is a fascinating if elemental echo of the well-known Buddhist genre of pagoda texts, in which images of religious architecture are composed of sutra passages. In viewing these works the spectator may focus on these “image-texts” either close up or from a distance: as distinct lines of characters or, stepping back, as iconic pictures.133 The stylized triple peak of the great volcano, with its inverted conelike shape, that frames Fuji art of this kind further resembles Buddhist pagodastupa texts in that it encloses within itself the “relics” of the teaching—left behind in this case by a distinctly Japanese deity. As we shall see, Kakugyō’s and his

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successors’ renditions of Mount Fuji were in fact understood not to depict the mountain but to embody its fundamental meaning and power as God. Most of the ominuki in circulation during the Edo period that are preserved in accessible collections and reproduced in books today are composed almost entirely of text, a trend that seems to have taken hold in the community in the late seventeenth or early eighteenth century and that is often associated with the reformist leader Jikigyō Miroku. Earlier ominuki tend to include more pictorial elements; those attributed to Kakugyō in particular often contain small line drawings of a few recurring symbols. In one example (figure 1.5), along with the bare outline of the mountain itself, we see at its base a torii, indicating entry into the Fuji god’s territory in the foothills; a three-legged crow, flying right to left; and on either side of the summit, spheres representing the moon and sun.134 Kakugyō’s drawings also often include some reference (although minimal) to the lower mountain’s vegetation, as in figure 1.6. These various elements reiterate the iconography of the late Muromachi paintings discussed above, and indeed some scholars routinely include the ominuki in the sankei mandara genre. Not only Kakugyō’s ominuki but also the versions produced by his followers later in the Tokugawa period are said to depict the mountain “in the style of a pilgrimage mandala.”135 Medieval mountain pilgrimages were, to borrow Allan G. Grapard’s language, “intimately related to the Buddhist notion that the religious experience was a process (ongoing practice) rather than simply the final goal of practice. . . . The entirety of the path followed by the pilgrim was seen to be sacred.”136 For the members of the emerging Fuji movement as well, all parts of the volcano, whether the wooded areas and bodies of water on its lower slopes, its lava caves, its gravelly upper reaches, or its huge crater, were suffused with religious meaning in this sense—one did not have to reach the peak in order to commune with the Fuji deity. In due course pilgrimage to Mount Fuji came to be conceived less as an individual rebirth or awakening than as a quest for access to the mountain’s therapeutic and protective powers. Kakugyō’s depictions thus present a striking contrast to the nearly contemporaneous sankei mandara that exalt the Sengen-Murayama version of the Mount Fuji experience, and not only because of the former’s simplified nature. His and his followers’ renditions of the mountain are emphatically not spiritual itineraries that lead the mind’s eye through different levels up to the blissful peak. In comparison with the shrine-temple pilgrimage mandalas, which divide the mountain into set paths that guide the prospective traveler to purification ponds, shrine enclosures, and hostels on the way to an enlightened buddha-land, the ominuki images do not project a progression from the bottom of the mountain to the top: all parts of Mount Fuji appear to be on the same plane, of equal value.

Figure 1.5. Kakugyō ominuki. Hanging scroll. Ink on paper. 1620. Source: Murakami Shigeyoshi and Yasumaru Yoshio, Minshū shūkyō no shisō, NST 67:483.

Figure 1.6.  Kakugyō ominuki. Hanging scroll. Ink on paper. 52 by 39.5 cm. Late sixteenth or seventeenth century. Fujii Yōsaburō Family Collection. Courtesy of Fujisan Myūjiamu, Fujiyoshida.

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In this regard Kakugyō’s pictures are much closer in appearance to the aforementioned block-printed mandalas (especially the Sanzon kuson zu and Fujisan hachiyō kuson) that were issued in the early Edo period by the mountain’s shrinetemple institutions, and that as we have seen are more akin to devotional items (and perhaps talismans) than inspirational maps. The ominuki generally direct our gaze not to the physical mountain qua terrain to be traversed as a religious exercise but to the “content” of Mount Fuji, represented as special text. Moreover, these writings were understood to be far more than lines of characters arranged in the shape of a mountain. The compositions of ideographs, syllabic marks, and elementary drawings were regarded in the movement as living portraits of the god of Mount Fuji and indeed encapsulations of the mountain’s power. Thus, even though the esoteric Buddhist mandalization of mountains and other revered sites that Grapard highlights was not really carried forward in the Fuji movement, the group’s revered ominuki seem to share the mandalic premise that ritualized images do not simply represent but directly embody deity. In other words, Kakugyō’s works echo the idea that Dainichi Buddha is directly accessible through a graphic or visual creation. In a reverse honji suijaku mode, however, in these small Fuji mandalas it is the group’s main deity, now identified as Moto no Chichihaha (True Father and Mother), who emerges as the mountain’s original ground, rather than Dainichi.137 A work produced in the late seventeenth century by Kakugyō’s fourth-­ generation successor, Getsugan, vividly illustrates the commonalities and contrasts between the Muromachi pilgrimage mandalas associated with Murayama and Ōmiya, and the devotional images produced by the early Tokugawa Fuji practitioners. By this time the small cells of followers who took inspiration from Kakugyō’s activities had begun to establish lineages and to produce their own ritual materials in earnest. Getsugan ominuki is a relatively large rendition of the mountainscape and was likely hung for display as a hanging scroll rather than routinely transported (figure 1.7). It was created in 1680, most likely to endorse pilgrimage to Mount Fuji during the kōshin year, like the aforementioned Hachiyō kuson zu. In contrast to the latter, however, even though the view is from the northern perspective, virtually all sides of the mountain are represented, from Hitoana, Ōmiya, and Murayama in the west and south, to the Subashiri approach and Kawaguchi Lake in the east and north. Given this panoramic interpretation of Mount Fuji it seems unlikely that Getsugan’s work was sponsored by a single established religious institution as were the earlier pilgrimage mandalas. Multiple points of interest on the mountain—not only torii, lodges, and prayer halls but also mountain paths, special crags, and other sites intended to serve the mind’s eye of the prospective pilgrim (such as the station beyond which women were not allowed to travel)—are highlighted throughout the scroll. The usual sets of Buddhist deities (Amida, Dainichi, and their retinues) are

Figure 1.7.  Getsugan ominuki. Hanging scroll. Ink and color on paper. 92 by 32 cm. 1680. Fujii Yōsaburō Family Collection. Courtesy of Fujisan Myūjiamu, Fujiyoshida.

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duly represented, although by their names rather than images. As was common in mountain mandalas they appear in the top stratum of the image, visually identifying the summit with the acme of religious practice. In these various respects Getsugan’s ominuki loosely resembles the late medieval Fuji pilgrimage mandalas. However, we see no human figures carrying out rituals or climbing the slopes, whether priests or pilgrims. Instead, the landscape is replete with the talismanic syllable signs and neo-ideographs inherited from Kakugyō’s corpus, which define the ominuki genre. Four clusters of ritual text, themselves miniature ominuki, are authenticated by Getsugan’s signature and in one case (on the lower right) dated. Two additional sets of lines (on either side of the mountain’s upper axis beneath the crater) record apotropaic formulae.138 Numerous other interpretive signs and symbols, which would have been familiar to many people of the time, are interspersed throughout the scroll, such as Buddhist swastikas, a gojūnotō (five-tiered pagoda), a systematic list of stars, geographical directions, and selected elemental forces (especially water). Furthermore, in comparison with the Fuji pilgrimage mandalas, which stress certain areas of the mountain and channel prospective travelers to selected purification sites, shrine structures, and hostels on the way to a buddha-land at the peak, Getsugan’s landscape-like ominuki does not single out an itinerary from the foothills of the mountain to its crater. In this regard as well it has more in common with Kakugyō’s works, which tend to depict all parts of Mount Fuji on the same plane, as of equal value. From the perspective of the new Fuji practitioners the goal orientation visually suggested in the Buddhist-inflected sankei mandara and implicit in the ritual disciplines promoted by the pilgrimage establishment was apparently less than compelling. Like revealed texts in other religious traditions, the ominuki attributed to Kakugyō, Getsugan, and other Fuji leaders were inspired by these individuals’ religious experiences. The truths that Sengen is said to have disclosed to them differ considerably in form, however, from the predominantly discursive and narrative knowledge that is handed down in, for example, biblical literature. Kakugyō and later Fuji ascetics were reportedly endowed with their insights during or immediately after their completion of arduous physical disciplines. This dynamic suggests that in the Fuji religious community the revelations were thought to be embedded in the somatic dimension of the practitioner’s person, rather than abstracted in a linear series of doctrines or concepts. The idea that the attainment of truth is a bodily process is common in Japanese religious culture. In some medieval didactic tales, for example, we find spiritual transformation characterized as sheer corporeal metamorphosis from human or animal to deity.139 In Kakugyō’s case, however, Sengen’s deposit of the truth in his body on the basis of his austerities was further transmuted into aesthetic-ritual culture. This pattern of thinking about the

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revelation process is explicitly reiterated in the Fuji lexicon. “Ominuki” literally means “body extraction.” The language seems to imply that Kakugyō, having merged with Mount Fuji through self-emptying austerities, was able to extract Sengen’s truth from his now-sanctified person (mi) and condense it in his writings and drawings.140 The resultant ominuki was understood as a direct deposit or distillation of the mountain, rather than as a portrayal or description. In reviewing the scattered depictions of Fuji devotional practices and culture contained in late sixteenth- and seventeenth-century texts and artwork, I have noted overlapping and shifting interpretations, rather than a linear evolution, of the religious meaning of the mountain—whether as a venue of pilgrimage culminating at the peak, a site for heroic-ascetic cave ordeals, or the material expression of a powerful divinity. The new Fuji practitioners drew on these and other forms of the religious imagination, but ultimately centered their faith on a conception of the mountain as the fundamental creator and caregiver of the universe, a notion that we shall discuss further in chapter 3. The affirmative tone of references to the fabled cave, Hitoana, in the movement’s discourse and ritual images hints at this growing appreciation of the mountain as a salvific and beneficent power, evocative of Amida’s Pure Land, in contrast to earlier preoccupations with the cavern as an entry into fearful karmic realms. Kakugyō’s ritual images of Mount Fuji in turn reveal a focus on the mountain deity’s parental nature and transformative power, rather than on an inspirational itinerary to the summit, as represented in Fuji pilgrimage mandalas. The ominuki laid the foundation for an alternative, grassroots claim to the meaning of the mountain. Throughout the Fuji movement’s history followers exhibited these “bodily extractions” in the form of hanging scrolls and paid reverence to them, both during pilgrimages up the mountain and in front of domestic altars. Iwashina Koichirō, known for his extensive archival research and fieldwork on residual Fujikō practices in the mid-twentieth century, sometimes refers to the ominuki simply as the Fujikō honzon—the group’s principal image of worship.141 Yet in the early Edo period these pictorial texts probably served more conspicuously as ritual aids than as enshrined icons. A preponderance of small drawings of this kind in Kakugyō’s hand have been found, suggesting that they were distributed to followers on a broader scale than the larger hangingscroll versions. These reduced-size images channeled religious significance in multiple sensory registers—they functioned not only visually as items of worship but also, as discussed in the next chapter, orally and linguistically as liturgical guides, talismans, and lineage documents. Their proliferation in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries was part of an ongoing trend in early modern Japan in which ordinary people created and disseminated their own religious culture.142

C HA P T E R T WO

Ritual Appropriation of the Mountain

Practices that involved talismans and amulets were integral to Japanese religious life in the Tokugawa period. The popularization of these services and the materials associated with them is often attributed to the outreach efforts of Shugendō, Buddhist, Onmyōdō, and other ritual professionals, but this type of culture was also created and disseminated by various informal practitioners, including members of the Fuji religious groups who identified themselves with Kakugyō Tōbutsu. We have seen that in the Muromachi period Murayama Shugendō guides and Sengen Shrine staff cultivated networks of pilgrims and mediated the latter’s access to the mountain and its putative salvific power. The yamabushi had ostensibly qualified themselves to offer ritual services and materials to their patrons by periodically completing ascetic disciplines on the mountain. However, as noted earlier, regular engagement in mountain austerities by members of the Shugendō orders is thought to have decreased in Tokugawa Japan, both at Mount Fuji and elsewhere. In comparison with their predecessors early modern yamabushi were less itinerant; many based their activities in rural villages and concentrated on offering healing and apotropaic assistance to people in the vicinity.1 In conjunction with this shift, talismanic articles designed to address the needs of local clienteles came to pervade the Japanese religious landscape. In the case of Mount Fuji, the reduction in influence of the Murayama practitioners was accompanied by the gradual appearance, initially in rural areas near Edo, of dedicated amateurs who developed their own ritual culture. It is generally assumed that the ideas and practices propagated by Kakugyō and his disciples derived from existing customs of mountain asceticism in the Kantō area, though not from Shugendō in any formal sense.2 This view is not incorrect, but in this study I seek to complicate it by highlighting the content and uses of selected cultural products that came to be associated with this new form of Fuji faith (shinkō) in the Edo period. As indicated in the previous chapter, devotional images of the mountain emphasized or deemphasized elements of postmedieval thought and symbology depending on the intended use of the particular item. Taken as a whole the expansion of Fuji pilgrimage art from 61

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inspirational itineraries to portable icons and small ritual images—“modest materialities,” to borrow a recent phrase—suggests an ongoing negotiation between priestly and popular control of mountain religion in the early Edo period.3 That is, Kakugyō Tōbutsu and his immediate disciples drew on the same stock of ritual knowledge as the professional yamabushi, but they grouped together independently of the Tokugawa religious hierarchy, and before long supplied an alternative to the service of these and other registered ritual practitioners. Although firm evidence of their activities during the early Edo period is scarce, by the late seventeenth century, as we shall see, in the Fuji catchment area the services offered by these relatively mobile devotees were apparently considered comparable to those of professional mountain ascetics, itinerant mendicants, and other individuals who offered to heal or otherwise facilitate the well-being of local clients.4 It was because of the new Fuji practitioners’ growing success in accommodating people’s religious and health needs that their apotropaic and therapeutic activities eventually became controversial within the developing community itself. A recurring source of tension in Fujikō over the course of its history was disagreement over the value of ritual services, especially prayer rituals. During the first half of the Edo period the subgroups who identified themselves with the tradition inaugurated by Kakugyō differed somewhat in their views of acceptable practices in this regard. Jikigyō Miroku’s critique of fee-based prayer services in the early eighteenth century (treated in chapter 4) is the earliest written evidence of this debate. Later in the eighteenth century control over the economy of these practices, rather than their religious validity per se, became a pressing issue in the Fuji pilgrimage community. Problems between Fuji practitioners and government authorities, and in due course conflicts between Fujikō-identified ritualists, on the one hand, and oshi associated with the northern trail, on the other, repeatedly coalesced around prerogatives to carry out services identified with Mount Fuji. This chapter explains the nature and uses of some of the ritual customs and materials that provided the backdrop for Jikigyō’s polemic. After outlining the vocabulary of prayer ritual and talismans, I introduce the Fuji version of this culture, bearing in mind its possible sources, especially Shugendō-type influences, and pinpoint the features of the new talismans that reveal their independence from this broader heritage. I then review the ways in which these objects seem to have been used in the Fuji religious network during the seventeenth century. By the time Jikigyō began his own mountain disciplines in the Genroku era (1688–1704) his fellow practitioners in the group were regularly employing talismanic items to address the ritual needs of local inhabitants, much as did

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authorized mountain ascetics of the time. The second half of the chapter analyzes the oral and linguistic dimensions of these image-texts, and outlines their additional function as lineage documents. The revealed ideographs inscribed on these works served as a special medium through which Kakugyō and his followers challenged the linguistic conventions and, by implication, the dominant literary and religious culture of their time. From early times in Japan the terms “kitō” and “inori” (both usually translated “prayer”) were used to designate a verbal petition to the gods that was uttered in ritual contexts, such as divination or purification; with the spread of Buddhism communal prayers aimed at acquiring or giving thanks for various blessings or protection became regular temple activities.5 In these contexts kitō connoted not only the utterance itself (or its written form) but also the accompanying ritual or memorial service in which it was embedded. Because the translation of kitō simply as “prayer” does not encompass these additional nuances, in this study I use the phrase “prayer ritual”—a conventional but reasonably explanatory rendition that encompasses both the verbal and nonverbal aspects of the practice. The ritual aspect of prayer has not always been appreciated in modern scholarship, perhaps because of lingering modernist preoccupations with distinguishing formulaic recitations from spontaneous personal prayer. However, from the second half of the twentieth century, speech act theory and performative studies began to render this distinction less persuasive, if not obsolete. It is now recognized that seemingly private prayer is often closely related to liturgical utterances in terms of language, style, and physical gesture; and further that repetitive prayers are not necessarily shallow calcifications of a longlost spontaneity but vital events in the religious and educational life of both the individual and the community.6 Premodern Japanese petitions to gods (kami) and mantric evocations of buddhas were invariably set utterances and components of larger prayer acts. The performance of kitō required not only the enunciation of a formula, often based on a ritual text, but also nonverbal contextual elements—the physical setting in which the utterance was to occur, its timing, certain bodily movements, the use of specific ritual instruments, directional orientations, and so forth. A broad understanding of kitō as prayer ritual therefore involves contextualizing it in terms of such accompanying conditions, rather than focusing only on a onedimensional verbal expression. In Japan as in several other cultural contexts, repeated prayer has long been associated with transformative psychological and social effects on the practitioner. Far from the deterministic formulae associated with magic or sorcery in the West, when used in the correct setting this kind of prayerful ritual (whether classified as liturgy, chant, or mantra) can modulate the

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orientation of its participants because it establishes a shared expectation of union with the deity or power in question.7 Under the influence of esoteric Buddhism in Japan, the term “kitō” came to be used as part of the set phrase “kaji kitō,” a locution that even more clearly exposes the assumption that prayer is a broad interaction involving more than a one-way verbal communication to a deity. The import of the kaji element derives from the esoteric conception of a mutually reciprocal process in which the Buddha bestows (ka) enlightening power and absolute compassion on the practitioner, who then “holds” or maintains (ji) these qualities in his or her own true nature.8 Kaji kitō in this context therefore encompasses the idea of a personal transformation of some kind, enabled in part by the voicing of specific words. This conception of prayer ritual was not necessarily carried over wholesale into organized mountain asceticism, but it left a profound imprint. One modern Shugendō scholar defines “kaji kitō” along these lines as “a ritual in which one prays to the object of worship for the fulfillment of a request after having performed the mudras, declaimed the true words [mantras], and entered the realm of the object of worship.”9 Mountain ascetics in fact became a driving force in the popularization of ritualized prayer and talismanic culture in early modern Japan, although in the process, for better or worse, the phrase “kaji kitō” became unmoored from its original semantic context. The expression came to be used generically to mean propitiatory, apotropaic, and therapeutic services conducted in any number of settings—not only by ordained Buddhist and Shugendō ritualists but also by shrine priests, diviners, mendicant performers, and various other ritual specialists of the time, including Fuji ascetics. We have no exact descriptions of the Fuji rituals of the early Tokugawa period (which some scholars retrospectively label “kaji kitō”), but the extant talismanic materials that Kakugyō Tōbutsu and his followers produced shed some light on the nature of these practices in the seventeenth century.

Talismans Abridged versions of the ominuki discussed in the preceding chapter began to circulate, generally in the form of paper slips, during Kakugyō’s lifetime and among his direct followers.10 These portable image-texts, albeit distinctive, were simply one variety of the plethora of talismanic and amuletic objects that were nearly ubiquitous in Tokugawa society. A word is in order regarding the meaning of these terms. In the West “amulet” ordinarily means a small object worn or carried on the body, usually for apotropaic or protective purposes, but

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sometimes to relieve particular illnesses or pains.11 The term has therefore been used to translate words that designate similar items in Asia, such as Tambiah’s Buddhist amulets in Thailand.12 In the premodern European context amuletic objects did not usually center on text but on images of holy persons, gods, or animals, and they were often made out of solid materials, such as metal or stone. Postmedieval Christian talismans are similarly described as “powerful, sometimes apotropaic objects engraved with astrological images” that generally omit text.13 Even taken together, however, the English terms “talisman” and “amulet” barely approximate the extensive Japanese vocabulary for these kinds of items.14 In this study I use “talismans” to refer to sheets, slips, cards, and scrolls that have been ritually inscribed or imprinted with special text and/or images, and that are believed to have the power to remove afflictions and troubles, or to defend against their onset.15 I regard amulets as a subset of the broader talismanic genre and the closest English equivalent to the modern Japanese omamori: small cards, slips of paper, and similarly flat, portable objects that may be carried on the person or affixed to possessions, usually for protective purposes.16 The talismanic use of images and text inscribed on surfaces originated in continental East Asia long before the Common Era; the earliest extant example is dated before 151 CE, although such items were used in healing practices much earlier.17 These kinds of writings evolved in China in close association with Daoist, astrological, and, eventually, Buddhist practices, and over time their appearance became increasingly elaborate and stylized.18 The origins and early development of similar activities in Japan are not well documented, but talismanic objects were clearly in circulation by the Heian period at the very latest and probably much earlier. In the medieval period the Kumano shrines became a leading source of ritual objects of this kind—talismans and amulets were printed from wooden blocks and widely distributed by Kumano bikuni (storytelling Buddhist nuns).19 Other temples and shrines throughout the country followed suit, developing their own characteristic inscriptions; in time, these items and the related rituals came to be associated especially with esoteric Buddhism, as well as with Nichiren Buddhism, Onmyōdō, and some forms of kami worship.20 In the Tokugawa period, however, mountain ascetics were arguably the principal shapers and purveyors of talismanic culture of this kind. As in China most of these healing and protective articles were dominated by textlike writing, sometimes in combination with images, and inscribed or printed on cards or pieces of paper of various sizes.21 The characters on Shugendōstyle talismans are arranged in particular ways to represent symbolic forms, such as the sun, moon, and stars, or are combined with circular or square shapes, or are juxtaposed with symbols of deities. Such items variously also display seed

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syllables in siddhaṃ script (shūji; Skt. bīja), abbreviated sutra passages, transformative formulae (ju; Skt. dhāraṇī), the names of deities, and/or other pieces of text considered spiritually efficacious.22 The closing string of Chinese characters kyū kyū nyo ritsu ryō (Ch. jiji ru lüling)—characteristic of Daoist amulets—as well as the names of the prospective ritual’s sponsors and/or the specific purpose of the ceremony frequently also appear on Japanese talismans associated with mountain asceticism.23 By the middle of the Edo period prayer rituals involving these aids were one of the main ways in which Shugendō practitioners interacted with the Japanese population. Late Tokugawa talismanic materials (notably the works of a practitioner known as Shōsai Sonkai, 1826–1892) that were assembled by the doyen of modern Shugendō studies, Miyake Hitoshi, amply document people’s extensive reliance on the services of yamabushi for help with everything from repelling insects to solving love problems—although the most common life concerns were prevention and healing of illnesses, insurance of safe childbirth, and exorcism of evil spirits.24 Moreover, although the actual rituals carried out in association with particular talismans (including their initial creation) are not described in any detail in these Shugendō compilations,25 it is clear that the general framework remained esoteric Buddhist throughout the Edo period and beyond. Guidance for producing these ritual tools found in manuals aimed at a popular readership today reproduce the same discourse: When one is about to write out a talisman [fu], one purifies one’s mind and body, burns incense, and thereby cleanses oneself as well as one’s surroundings. After praying for [the Buddha’s] blessing by reciting the True Words [of Dainichi], one rubs sumi ink from the ink stone and writes out the characters [on the talisman] while chanting the seed syllables [of Dainichi]. Upon copying out the talisman, one joins one’s hands to form the mudra associated with its beneficial effect and chants the True Words and the Heart Sutra. In this way one transforms the talisman into a spiritual object.26 In the Edo period after these talismans were written out and activated they were employed in a variety of ways—stuck to or carried on the body, set up erect to view, pasted to walls, ingested, placed in wells, or buried in the ground—the choice of method was likely related to the particular aim.27 The use of ritual aids in Mount Fuji devotionalism was shaped by the same customs and attitudes. Writing specifically about the Shugendō context Miyake distinguishes “protective talismans” (gofu), which are meant to help prevent

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misfortunes and afflictions of various kinds, from “incantatory talismans” (jufu), designed to expel existing troubles and evil influences.28 From the outset the new Fuji practitioners also used their talismans and amulets as both prophylactics against illness and adversity, and therapies for existing troubles and ailments. Most recorded Fuji talismans of the Edo period seem to have been protective in function, however, and as such, following Miyake’s typology, would appropriately be called gofu. “Fusegi,” the term that Kakugyō and his followers used to refer to the formulae that they inscribed on these items, in fact indicates a safeguard or deterrent against unwanted phenomena or events.29 In practice, however, the same talismanic item could be used either to remedy or to protect against an illness or misfortune; hence it may be more useful to distinguish between the protective and therapeutic uses of these multipurpose items, rather than between distinct types of material objects. A subgenre of Fuji talismanic items, goō hōin (ox-bezoar seals), is a case in point—over time they developed several functions.30 Sheets imprinted with characteristic seals were issued in the medieval period by the Kumano shrines and other Japanese religious centers as protective talismans, and in time their reverse sides were used to authenticate agreements and pledges. In the earliest extant Fuji versions, which are dated to the Sengoku period, the five characters Fujisan hōin (“Mount Fuji precious seal”) are stamped in the manner of a family crest on documents used to record such pledges (kishōmon).31 Like their Kumano prototypes, these early Fuji goō prints served as both amulets and forms of authentication. The style of the characters inscribed on them in fact recalls the widespread Kumano version: crow-characters (karasu moji) are characteristic of Kumano talismans and in some Fuji imprints one or more of the five characters takes on the shape of a bird, most likely a crow.32 These stylized goō emblems of Mount Fuji are thought to have been well in circulation by the time Kakugyō was active in the late sixteenth century. Indeed, members of his circle actively participated in their production. Taihō (Saitō Tazaemon, b. 1549), one of Kakugyō’s two leading disciples, inscribed the back of a Mount Fuji goō printing block in 1618.33 The symbology, style, and ritual applications of the various genres of imagetext produced by the founding members of the new Fuji movement were rooted in a broader religious imaginary that was graphically represented in the medieval period in pilgrimage mandalas, as we have seen, as well as in talismans and oxbezoar seals. The Fuji versions of these items were thus part of an ongoing ritualaesthetic trend in Japan that expanded further in the Tokugawa period in tandem with the popularization of travel to religious sites and other devotional activities. At the same time, however, the artifacts inspired by Kakugyō’s revelations are distinctive in both appearance and function. The talismanic writings that authorized

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mountain ascetics used in the Edo period provide an instructive comparison— they differ from the Fuji versions in a number of respects. Without systematic study it is problematic to draw conclusions about these highly diverse items, but a preliminary survey of the examples collected in Tokugawa yamabushi manuals suggests that even though Shugendō and Fuji talismans share a Daoist-type preoccupation with repeated characters, the yamabushi versions have a more schematic or formalized look than the ominuki and fusegi produced by Kakugyō and his followers. (For an example of a putative Shugendō talisman of the Edo period, see figure 2.1.) Moreover, while both Shugendō and Fuji talismans refer to certain elements, such as the sun, the moon, and stars, that were characteristic features of the mandalic and yin-yang aesthetic upon which they each drew, the former, like their Daoist antecedents, tend to be less representational or pictorial in style.34 Most significantly, the image of the peak is integral to the design of the visual works generated by the Fuji religious movement in the seventeenth

Figure 2.1.  Talisman against tooth decay (Mushikuiba no fu). Source: Shugen jinpi gyōhō fuju shū, SS 2:263.

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century. 35 Unlike the yamabushi affiliated with the Honzan or Tōzan denominations of Shugendō, the new practitioners grounded their talismanic and other ritual products almost exclusively on the vision of the mountain itself. The great majority of the founder’s own writings indicate, however abstractly, the peak—and often a torii, vegetation, and/or the three-legged crow. His followers also regularly portrayed the mountain, even if only in outline, as the source of the life-giving powers that these practitioners purported to channel to their followers. In comparison, even Shugendō-type talismans that implicitly refer to Dainichi Buddha do not ordinarily center on his image (or a character that represents him)—or indeed on that of any other powerful, all-embracing deity or mountain god. Finally, although both Shugendō and Fuji talismans were employed as practical aids for fending off illness and adversity, the latter variety give no evidence of being designed for specific ritual aims. That is, as a rule the ominuki and early fusegi sheets were not graphically or ideographically tailored to defined needs; most simply replicate the outline of Mount Fuji and the same strings of revealed characters, regardless of the prospective ritual occasion or request. 36 From the movement’s earliest phase the Fuji image-texts were used as both icons for worship and as talismans. These items necessarily “represented” Mount Fuji visually even as they channeled the mountain deity’s parental power, in contrast to the corresponding Shugendō fu, which were more strictly apotropaic and exorcistic in function.

Healing Practices in the Early Fuji Community Given the considerable number of ritual aids that Kakugyō Tōbutsu and his immediate disciples reportedly left behind, their production, use, and distribution must have occupied a good portion of these practitioners’ time.37 The smaller ominuki, the fusegi amulets, and the Fuji goō seals tended to be rather simple paper slips and were not preserved as carefully as the more formal and elaborate ominuki hanging scrolls, so we cannot know how extensively or in what numbers they may have circulated. However, a number of the early diagrams and imagetexts are extant, as well as later versions based on Kakugyō’s templates that were issued in the centuries after his death. In addition to these materials (held in private or Fujikō archives, and in museum collections), written records attest that the use of these smaller items for protective and healing purposes had become an established practice in the Fuji religious community by the second half of the seventeenth century at the latest. These textual sources are primarily the group’s own narratives and reports of its activities.

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In the following pages I draw on portions of this data to sketch a picture of the talismanic practices that were likely in use among Kakugyō’s followers when Jikigyō became active in the group, late in the seventeenth century. I foreground reports of healing, which dominated the spectrum of ritual arts practiced in Fujikō through much of its history. Needless to say, descriptions of the actual healings carried out by Fuji practitioners during the Tokugawa period are accessible only in a second- or third-hand way, by inference back from later accounts. The classic story of Kakugyō’s own healing activities is the aforementioned late eighteenth-century hagiography The Book of Great Practice. Its authors recount several episodes in which the founding figure subjects himself to severe physical disciplines, usually for a period of seven days. In each case the god of Mount Fuji (called Sengen Dainichi in the text), empowers Kakugyō to cure a particular individual’s illness or to dispel a life-threatening epidemic. For example, on one occasion Kakugyō receives a protective formula (fusegi) against all illnesses after fasting for a week. 38 On another, immediately after he completes a similar regimen at Mount Fuji’s Western Lake (Nishi no Umi; Saiko), he is approached by local residents whose village has been devastated by a highly contagious disease; in response he undertakes a seven-day period of sleep deprivation. Sengen thereupon grants Kakugyō a string of potent words (gomonku) that the ascetic successfully employs to eliminate the epidemic. 39 In other episodes of the Book, Sengen endows the founder with formulae for expediting safe childbirth, for warding off problems associated with the afterbirth, and for preventing epilepsy. Kakugyō did not accumulate a large group of followers in his lifetime. However, again according to later Fujikō narratives, his two senior disciples, Taihō and Nichigyō Nichigan (Kurono Unpei, 1588–1652), were each inspired to join him after he cured them of grave illnesses.40 Taihō is said to have suffered from leprosy; Kakugyō identified the correct fusegi for the disease and then proceeded to conduct a seven-day “great practice,” after which the sickness vanished.41 Taihō then committed himself to Kakugyō’s teachings (allegedly in 1576) and followed him around the country, carrying out austerities alongside his teacher until the younger man died unexpectedly while performing cold-water austerities in Shiraito Falls, near Hitoana.42 Kakugyō’s other disciple, Nichigan, reportedly had an ailment that severely impeded his speech and hearing. The authors of the Book aver that Kakugyō cured him after determining the appropriate fusegi, although on this occasion, perhaps because of the seriousness of Nichigan’s condition, his teacher performed austerities not for one week but three, and in collaboration with Taihō.43 In other words, both Taihō and Nichigan are depicted as having benefited concretely from the power of Kakugyō’s ascetic

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disciplines and to have been compelled by these experiences to practice under him thereafter, eventually accumulating sufficient power of their own to implement fusegi against local diseases and epidemics.44 Following a similar pattern of post-healing conversion, Nichigan’s own successor in turn, a trader of writing supplies known in the group as Ganshin (Akaba Shōzaemon, 1605–1671), joined the community after Nichigan exorcized a possessing fox from his daughter.45 In some cases the sequence of the ritual intervention was reversed: the requisite austerity did not “produce” or lead to the revelation of a healing formula by the mountain deity but rather activated one that had already been received and archived, as it were. Kakugyō’s largest-scale healing, according to the traditional account in the Book, took place in 1620, when several residents of Edo traveled the considerable distance to his regular practice site, Hitoana, to ask for help in eliminating a fatal, highly contagious disease.46 Kakugyō gave Taihō and Nichigan a healing formula that they took back to the shogunal capital and used to cure large numbers of people. The account of this collective healing session concludes with the remark, “We set up a notice board at the entrance to Edo, and in three days completed memorial rites for a thousand people [who had died]. Since 110 sick people came to us in a single day, our presence became known throughout Edo.”47 This sequence of events, in which the fusegi was selected and activated rather than custom-produced for the occasion on the basis of a dedicated ascetic stint, may have been patterned after the practices with which the authors of the Book were most familiar. By the late Tokugawa period, when Kakugyō’s hagiography was probably composed, healing practices and practitioners of all kinds (and their materials) had proliferated markedly in Japan, and ritual professionals were likely relying on compendia of exorcistic or healing formulae. If, however, the report is in fact traceable to Kakugyō’s lifetime, it lends weight to the view that the founding figure was an experienced, even semiprofessional healer who, like his Shugendō counterparts, maintained a collection of talismanic formulae on which he drew as needed. Either way the text leads us to believe that Kakugyō and his senior disciples operated in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries very much along the lines of the traditional hijiri or wandering ascetic who professed healing powers based on a repertoire of grueling physical ordeals. By asserting that the founding figures of Fujikō had performed successful curative rituals on a large scale in Edo virtually at the commencement of the shogunal order, the authors of The Book of Great Practice were in effect validating the qualifications of contemporary kō members to enact these services in their own time. These stories of Kakugyō’s and his disciples’ healing activities are not free of exaggeration or error, regardless of how we date them. However, the thrust of the

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accounts as a whole—that Kakugyō and his seventeenth-century successors offered therapeutic services both in Edo and the countryside—is rendered persuasive when one considers them in light of the material evidence (the ominuki and fusegi slips). Nichigan, for example, who became Kakugyō’s senior disciple after Taihō died, was heavily involved in performing prayer rituals, if we are to judge from the numerous talismanic writings bearing his name that twentiethcentury researchers discovered in the Mount Fuji catchment area.48 The most reliable narrative source for the Fuji practitioners’ activities before Jikigyō Miroku’s time, however, is Getsugan koji kuji no maki (Layman Getsugan’s Case Record), an account authored in 1684 by Maeno Rihei, known as Getsugan in the group.49 Getsugan, an Edo native who worked in a lacquerware shop, had begun practicing under Nichigan’s successor, Ganshin, in 1654 and succeeded him as leader of Kakugyō’s followers in 1661. The account reveals that in the late seventeenth century Getsugan and his disciples were energetically distributing Fuji talismans to villagers in eastern Japan. Most of the extant examples from this period are ominuki-style items modeled after Kakugyō’s creations; in the Case Record they are variously called “amulets,” “permits,” “talismans,” “protective formulae” (mamori, yurushi, fū, fusegi), or some combination thereof. Getsugan reports that the talismans were used domestically for health care and were highly regarded in the group for their efficacy in relieving serious illnesses, ensuring safe childbirth, and driving away possessing foxes.50 The ritually empowered diagrams of Mount Fuji were apparently also used to preserve crops and promote agricultural productivity. They were much in demand in rural areas near Edo during the formative stages of the Fuji movement, quite apart from any organized participation by their recipients in pilgrimages to the mountain. In his Case Record Getsugan testifies that in 1683 he visited a village called Ōtsuki in Ashikaga domain in Shimotsuke (today’s Tochigi Prefecture) at the invitation of Kobayashi Gonzaemon, a native of Ōtsuki who worked as a midlevel clerk in the wholesale tea business in Edo. Gonzaemon was a devoted Fuji religious practitioner who had already accompanied Getsugan on several climbs up the mountain.51 Getsugan reports that while at a community meeting in Ashikaga he was asked to draw up several hundred amuletic slips, but because he was unable to complete them in a timely manner his follower and traveling companion, Gesshin (Murakami Shichizaemon, 1639–1708), helped him inscribe about a hundred of them. He notes that while in Ashikaga he was also asked to write out silkworm talismans (kaiko no sho). At the time a considerable amount of silk product was exacted for the summer land tax in this area, and anxiety about the outcome of the next harvest may have heightened local demand for this kind of insurance in addition to that provided by the regular Fuji amulets.52

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Fuji devotionalism already had a strong foothold east and north of Edo by this time, notably in areas that correspond to today’s Tochigi, Ibaraki, Chiba, and Gunma Prefectures. We saw in the previous chapter that in the sixteenth century both Murayama mountain ascetics and Sengen shrine representatives had established networks of patrons and prospective pilgrims in various parts of Japan at some remove from the mountain.53 In addition to the pilgrim registers mentioned earlier, material evidence for regional devotion to the god of Mount Fuji in the early Tokugawa period, before Kakugyō’s followers organized themselves into kō in the eighteenth century, includes steles and other commemorative markers (kuyōtō). To cite one example, a stone marker dated 1670 stands today in the precincts of the Hie Shrine of Ina Village, in the Tsukuba district of Ibaraki; it is inscribed with the rubric “Fuji Sengen Daibosatsu,” along with the names of several “traveling companions” (dōgyō). Tellingly, the inscription uses the traditional (non-Fujikō) characters for Sengen 浅間, also pronounced “Asama.” Residents of this area, among others, were apparently operating Fuji pilgrim groups—probably under the supervision of Murayama or Sengen shrine representatives—even as Kakugyō’s successors were cultivating their own associations in the same or adjacent rural locations.54 It was on the foundation of these scattered collectives that practitioner-leaders such as Getsugan seemed to have built their own outreach, eventually developing a countrywide network of kō that in the late Edo period would dominate pilgrimage activities on the northern side of Mount Fuji. Although a regional analysis is beyond the scope of this book, some sites in which Kakugyō is believed to have performed intensive ascetic disciplines or to have conducted ritual services may be plausibly correlated with the origins of these later Fuji kō. Shimotsuke is a suggestive example. The religious activism of the founding figure and his immediate disciples apparently set off a small trend in the area during the last decade or so of the sixteenth century, before the Tokugawa shogunate was even established, and by the middle of the seventeenth century the seeds of the new Kakugyō-style Fuji devotionalism had already yielded modest fruit. According to Fusōkyōso nenpu (Chronology of Fusōkyō Founders), a later sectarian account of the origins and development of Fujikō, after completing two hundred-day ascetic disciplines in Shimōsa, in 1592 Kakugyō carried out at least four hundred-day sessions of cold-water ablutions and other austerities in Shimotsuke.55 Judging from this account he was particularly drawn to the village of Ōtsuki, where he performed rigorous disciplines numerous times. We are told that on one occasion “the villagers revered his marvelous teaching, placed their faith in it, and became his disciples,” and that he marked the moment by conferring a ritual certificate or “permit” (yurushi) on a

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certain Ayuba of Ōtsuki.56 Kakugyō returned to Shimotsuke repeatedly in the ensuing years. Decades later, after completing an austerity there in 1619 (when he was presumably seventy-nine years old), he wrote out a talismanic permit for the Arai family of Ōtsuki, and in the following year, again after performing a “great practice” in the area, he produced two more permits—one for a Shimotsuke family and one for a family in Kazusa.57 In 1632 Kakugyō returned once more to Ashikaga, this time for a thirty-day cold-water regimen in the Nagatoro River, after which he presented a talismanic permit to the Hase family of Ōtsuki.58 In sum, according to the Fusōkyōso Chronology, a good number of village families in eastern Japan, including several who resided in Shimotsuke, received ritual certificates directly from the Fujikō founder in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Kakugyō’s followers apparently continued to cultivate these rural communities. For example, his senior disciple, Nichigan, originally of Nagoya, moved to Utsunomiya in Shimotsuke, where he met and trained his own successor, Ganshin.59 We are also told that by this time the banks of the Nagatoro River in Ashikaga had become a customary place for Fuji religious believers (both men and women) to assemble and perform fujigori—cold-water austerities dedicated to the god of the mountain.60 The first-person testimony of Ganshin’s successor, Getsugan, corroborates this picture of a lively cluster of Fuji devotees active in Shimotsuke from the Sengoku through the early Edo periods. We learn from Getsugan’s Case Record that when he visited Ashikaga in 1683 a resident claimed that she possessed a large image of Mount Fuji in Kakugyō’s own hand. The image reportedly depicted the sun and moon, and a torii on the lower slope of Mount Fuji—in other words, it was an ominuki.61 When the follower showed the scroll to Getsugan and his companions, they “gazed at and paid obeisance to it.” They asked the woman to give it to them on the spot, but she was reluctant to part with the scroll, explaining that she needed it to protect her grandchildren from illness (reportedly, insanity, which she said ran in her family).62 Getsugan further relates that the woman’s grandson, a samurai called Sansuke, had recently acquired two ominuki hanging scrolls, one of which had been produced by Getsugan’s teacher, Ganshin, during a pilgrimage to Mount Fuji, and moreover that Sansuke himself had carried one of these scrolls up the mountain and unfurled it for worship at the peak (a common practice in the group).63 Getsugan confirms in his narrative that before Ganshin passed away in 1671, the two had climbed Mount Fuji every year along with the other practitioners, and that his teacher had instructed Getsugan to make copies of Fuji talismanic writings and distribute them to fellow climbers, apparently along with some sort of oral instruction on their appropriate use.64 By way of explanation Getsugan

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adds that the upper reaches of Mount Fuji were often fogged over and subject to violent snowstorms, that people suffered “drunken headaches” when they were on the mountain, and that the tendons in their legs and arms cramped painfully during the course of the climb. In addition to displaying the ominuki scrolls for worship, then, the climbers used Kakugyō-style amuletic sheets to counteract the effects of the bad weather, high altitude, and muscle strain. As long as the companions cut up these empowered slips of paper and affixed the pieces to their bodies, Getsugan attested, their physical problems would vanish and they would be able to complete the pilgrimage in excellent spirits.65 Getsugan’s first-person account of these practices, the extant talismanic slips signed by Kakugyō and his disciples, and the retroactive testimony of The Book of Great Practice and the Fusōkyō Chronology together paint a picture of a dedicated core of Fuji practitioners in the early Edo period who spent a good deal of time roaming around eastern Japan, performing austerities in selected spots and offering ritual services to people beset by physical afflictions, personal problems, or economic worries. These activists, unaffiliated with any authorized order of ritual professionals, independently cultivated small circles of followers, some of whom accompanied them in small groups on yearly pilgrimages up the mountain. However, it was the quest for health and prosperity among a larger, more generic set of rural dwellers that shaped the new Fuji devotionalism most directly in this formative stage, before the organized kō system took hold in the city of Edo in the late eighteenth century. During the early Tokugawa period, for most of this population “faith in Fuji” did not center on the pilgrimage experience itself so much as on these ritual exchanges, most likely including, in some locations, periodic devotions and proxy disciplines, such as the fujigori exercise. Kakugyō Tōbutsu’s version of the Fuji religion probably did not put down roots in the shogunal capital until at least the third generation of his followers.66 Initially Edo seems to have served more as a stopping-off point for him and his immediate disciples, but in tandem with the demographic changes that transpired in Japan in the seventeenth century the city became a home base for their successors. During this phase several dedicated followers migrated to Edo from farming villages and made their living there as small-scale traders and craftworkers, returning to their home areas from time to time. They may have been able to exploit their status as traveling peddlers, if not as pilgrims, to facilitate passage through the shogunal and domain barriers that were in operation at the time. The early practitioner-leaders as a whole, in this sense, may be characterized as part-time itinerants who traveled back and forth between Edo and the countryside. By the late seventeenth century, when the movement’s most important leader, Jikigyō Miroku, was still a young man, his fellow Fuji practitioners

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were routinely engaging in pursuits that involved ritually manipulating the power of the mountain in order to address the health, safety, and economic concerns of the general population in agrarian and, increasingly, urban settings. In time this dynamic, in conjunction with the boom in Fuji pilgrimage activities in the eighteenth century, fostered an extensive web of interconnected but distinct cells of followers that came to be known as Fuji kō.

Fuji Ritual Speech In discussing the evolving and overlapping relations between Mount Fuji pilgrimage mandalas and ritual diagrams in chapter 1, I concentrated on the visual features of the latter, including the pictorial arrangement of the text. In the following pages I take up the question of how the text in the ominuki and fusegi may have functioned linguistically as well, despite the fact that it includes several characters and graphemes that appear incomprehensible. In this regard they were certainly not without precedent; East Asian ritual writings of this kind not infrequently display characters or marks that have no clear referential meaning. Among practitioners of some traditions the enigmatic look of talismanic scripts is taken as evidence that the objects were inscribed while the writer was in a state of spiritual possession or under a deity’s revelatory influence. It is precisely the alien appearance and incomprehensibility of the text that signals its extraordinary origins and thus transformative potency.67 The spread of Daoism in medieval China was accompanied by a growing appreciation of the illegible quality of talismanic writing, and this sensibility made itself felt in Japanese religious culture as well.68 The role of seemingly unreadable text in Japanese ritual writing is also closely related to the esoteric Buddhist legacy of bīja (seed syllables) and mantric formulae or dhāraṇī, which are devoid of denotative content for many believers. In Shugendō-type materials in particular, as in Daoist examples, the writing itself is believed to enable access to the highest truth—a realm of meaning that cannot be communicated through conventional linguistic forms and must therefore be mediated by expert practitioner-interpreters. The scripts that appear in Kakugyō’s ominuki and fusegi differ considerably from the more extravagant marks and glyphs found on Daoist-influenced Shugendō talismans, but the premise is similar: a powerful deity or force inspires the practitioner with a cosmic truth that can be represented only in a mysterious form. The phenomenon of apparently nonsensical words and phrases is thus relatively common (if not intrinsic) to this type of ritual culture, and it is tempting to relegate Kakugyō’s odd characters and disjointed lines of text to the realm of the impenetrable, abandoning any attempt at serious interpretation. However, even a

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modest examination of the verbal forms and linguistic bits contained in these scrolls and sheets offers clues to the logic of healing and apotropaic practices in the Fuji movement, and in the Tokugawa religious world more generally. Stanley Tambiah once developed a typology of the speech used in Thai village rituals; it pertained to an entirely different set of social and religious circumstances, but nevertheless suggests a possible framework for grasping the nature and function of Fuji talismanic language.69 As in the Thai Buddhist case, Fuji ritual speech ranges across a spectrum of comprehensibility. At one end of the continuum are words that, in Tambiah’s parlance, are “broadcast but not understood.” In other words, they are chanted aloud, but in a language that most participants do not understand. In the Thai example, the chants are incomprehensible because they are not in Thai but in the language of the Pali canon; in the Fuji case the sounded syllables of the ominuki and other ritual texts are unrecognizable because they belong to an entirely new language, divinely revealed to (or created by) Kakugyō. Admittedly, the idea that bits of speech were “broadcast but not understood” seems counterintuitive in the Fuji case, for how could followers vocalize Chinese characters that were outside any known lexicon? Unlike phoneticized bits of language (written in a kana syllabary or romanized), which can be pronounced by a minimally literate person even if they are devoid of any referential meaning, invented ideographs cannot be pronounced until they are assigned readings. In the Fuji group the correct pronunciation of Kakugyō’s neo-ideographs was necessarily handed down orally in each generation of committed followers. As in other religious communities, limiting access to ritual knowledge, in this case liturgical and oral expertise, functioned in the early movement as a means of establishing and maintaining authority.70 Later Fujikō templates for vocalizing this type of ritual speech were called tonaebumi or recital texts. They generally consisted of one or more sets of spiritually powerful phrases or strophes (gomonku), sometimes interspersed with other types of language.71 An example appears in a set of talismanic writings aimed at expelling and preventing colds that is signed by the late-eighteenthcentury Fujikō mountain guide Seigyō Tokuzan (1764?–1832; figure 2.2).72 The text combines cursive Japanese syllables (kana), Chinese characters used phonetically (manyōgana), conventional Chinese ideographs, and ominuki neo-ideographs (kō, kū, soku, and the gi of fusegi). The writing to the left of kazebarai no fusegi (formula for expelling colds), which occupies the first four lines from the right side of the image, is titled kaze-okuri yakubyō saimon (saimon for expelling colds and contagious diseases), and in the full text it is followed by instructions for how to use the talisman. “Saimon” is a common term for the formal, recurring speech used in religious ceremonies; in this instance it indicates the words to be rhythmically chanted by practitioners during the healing event. In order

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Figure 2.2.  Formula for expelling colds (Kazebarai no fusegi). Seigyō Tokuzan, Seigyō kū yuishin dokuga densho. 1805. Courtesy of Kawaguchi-shi Kyōiku Iinkai. Kawaguchi Shiritsu Bunkazai Sentā Bunkan, Kyōdo Shiryōkan, Kawaguchi.

for the formula’s therapeutic power to operate effectively, these words and the rest of the text were to be recited aloud, most likely facing an unfurled ominuki scroll and/or the appropriate fusegi sheet.73 The words in these formulae range from obscure to impenetrable on a spectrum of referential significance. This particular fusegi replicates part of a talismanic text attributed to Kakugyō in the Book of Great Practice. The words appear to be saying something, not simply providing a phonetic guide for vocalization, but without in-house knowledge it comes across as a versified laudation, at best— more or less a list of the parental Mount Fuji’s divine qualities: The grace of our revered Fuji of the humane-hearted Parent The power of the eight-petalled Sengen Daibosatsu Namu Chōjitsu Gakkō-butsu’s tactful means are the light of all dharmas, good or evil The disciples of the revered mountain of the sages and gods The kōkū taisoku fusegi, the myōō sokutai fusegi.74

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When sounded, the words in these kinds of Fuji texts illustrate the special phonology of Japanese liturgical language. The sequence according to which one was to recite the lines of characters inscribed on the sheets and scrolls, as well as the intonation, stress, and rhythm of the chant, were set and generally considered integral to the healing or devotional event.75 As noted, repetition was also a characteristic feature of these scripts. In the ominuki and the fusegi slips, lines of duplicated characters often appear on either side of the central string of words or in other parts of the work. In the antiplague talisman displayed in figure 2.3, for example, the mouth character 口 appears successively four times on both sides of the axis.76 In a later portion of the talisman against colds mentioned above, the phrase sanjitsu kōkū taisoku (a variant epithet for Mount Fuji) is similarly

Figure 2.3. Method for quickly eliminating contagious diseases (Yakubyō hayabiki shiyō). Source: Hi no gohiden (1860), in Iwashina Koichirō, Fujikō no rekishi, 311.

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surrounded by the sun character, hi, repeated eight times on either side.77 The vocalization of repeated characters appears to have been an important feature of the group’s ritual interventions from its origins; Kakugyō’s talismanic works make generous use of duplicate words, syllables, and signs. The stylistic features of Fuji talismanic culture did not emerge in a vacuum; we have already noted visual resemblances to Shugendō and Daoist works of this kind. The sound elements in the verses, including inverted sequences (taisoku and sokutai; gadai and daiga), for their part mimic the parsing and rhythms of Buddhist sutra and dhāraṇī chanting.78 Ryūichi Abé has remarked in regard to esoteric Buddhist mantras that the “words not only denote but create reality”— they both refer to and evoke the cosmic truth or Buddha in sonic form.79 If we suppose that the Fuji strings of syllables contributed to a similar dynamic, what reality did they create, when voiced? Set portions of the ominuki text seem to have been recited during worship sessions as well as at healing events and ascetic rituals. In other words, Kakugyō and/or his followers established specific vocalization protocols and used them across a range of religious activities, much as yamabushi voiced mantras and dhāraṇī whether they were carrying out exorcistic rituals or standing under waterfalls. Fundamentally, the aim in each case was to invoke the presence of the deity and, ultimately, to effect tangible well-being. A common Fujikō term for these sequences of special characters is shingo, literally “God’s words.” If we take this phrase at face value, a performative understanding of the recital text, as a kind of divine language, may be in order. In his analysis of the Ugaritic proclamations of the “Craftsman God” Kothar (a deity who creates and names Baal’s weapons), Seth Sanders argues that the god’s discourse is “not performative by virtue of social conventions but on a higher level: as sheer self-enacting divine language.”80 In the Fuji case, Sengen (representing the True Father and Mother) was the putative speaker of the words that Kakugyō inscribed on the ominuki. In other words, in these ritual texts the god of Mount Fuji was bringing him and herself both orthographically and sonically into reality. From this perspective one might argue that whenever the contents of the ominuki were vocalized in the appropriate context, the event was not only a devotional liturgy or the recital of a healing formula but also the self-enacting speech act of the mountain. As long as the words were enunciated under the proper ritual circumstances and in accordance with the ominuki template, it was Sengen who was speaking—a kind of Fujikō version of Dainichi intoning mantras through the practitioner. Alternatively, these ritual utterances might be interpreted as mimetic in nature: according to one view, mantric practitioners sonically simulate the divine force or deity by relying on various poetic devices (alliteration, rhythm, repetition, and the use of nonsensical vocables as

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“intensifiers”). When they enunciate potent phrases in a particular way the reciters are neither supplicating their divinity nor setting in motion a coercive spell: such acts are premised on a separation between the practitioner, the language, and the divine, whereas mantric utterances are rather a “yielding into the other” through mimesis.81 The enunciation of Fuji ritual speech is perhaps best understood as encompassing both of these dimensions. That is, the shingo were Sengen’s divine language, spoken to Kakugyō, as well as the medium for his and his followers’ mimetic identification with the deity. Regardless of the particular ritual dynamic, however, the somatic nature of the practice consistently stands out. The Fuji group’s sources indicate an abiding concern with the physicality of the relationship among the practitioner, the deity, and the talismanic writing. We recall that the original revelation of the ominuki to Kakugyō was made possible by his severe acts of self-denial—a kind of self-emptying or corporeal yielding of himself to Mount Fuji—and further that the founder explicitly designated his ritual diagrams as “bodily extractions.” These items were understood to be, in effect, material exports from Kakugyō’s body of the teachings that Sengen had endowed in him: he transferred the divine truth into the ominuki scrolls directly from his physical person. The revelatory deposits functioned in turn as visual and sonic templates for religious praxis in the group; followers ritually reenacted the founder’s encapsulation of the teachings and thereby established their own identity with the god of Mount Fuji. In short, when later practitioners carried out fasts, cold-water austerities, and periods of confinement on the mountain’s slopes, following Kakugyō’s model they personally assimilated themselves to Mount Fuji in a sensory and physical sense. They first purified and emptied their bodies through acts of renunciation, thereby qualifying themselves as conduits for a renewed revelation, and then deposited the received truth in their own ominuki scrolls. A successful mediation of concrete benefits to others through rituals centered on these items could then ensue based on this disciplinary foundation. In healing events the therapy was set in motion by a practitioner who claimed the spiritual power necessary to transmit therapeutic energies to the patient via the formula selected for the condition in question. These rituals were social and perhaps collaborative in nature; in addition to the patient and the Fuji practitioner, family members and/or other followers were likely present. During some segments of the session they may have been expected to join in chanting parts of the ominuki or fusegi. Portions of these texts are written in cursive styles of kana and often take Japanese verse (waka) form. As such they represent a second kind of speech indicated in the talismanic materials: ordinary Japanese, “broadcast

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and understood” by followers or participants in general. For example, in the text of the talisman for expelling colds mentioned above, a verse follows the curative formulae. The lines (again drawn from the Great Practice) are translated by Royall Tyler as follows: kikoku yori fukikuru kaze wa aku kaze yo sore fukikaese Fuji no kamikaze

The wind that blows from the demon-land is an evil wind! Blow it back again, divine wind of Fuji!82

In the Fuji case, however, the Tambian typology should be modified to allow for speech that is broadcast and partially understood. On the face of it, many conventional Chinese characters in the ominuki seem to function phonetically (as manyōgana), rather than as carriers of their usual ideographic meaning. For instance, the character for heaven or the sky, ten, appears repeatedly in Kakugyō’s diagrams, and (as was not uncommon in premodern Japanese writing) simply seems to function as the syllable te or ten, and thereby assists the phrasing. Given its usual referent, however, the ideograph may also have reminded viewers and listeners of a higher realm or superior being, or served as a suffix that sanctified and elevated the meaning of the preceding characters. The use of auspiciousseeming ideographs and phonemes in the Fuji group may have helped construct a context of inspiration or awe in this way.83 The character for light, hikari, similarly operates phonetically in these works to represent its Sino-Japanese reading kō, but considering the ideograph’s positive connotations (in this context, its association with celestial luminaries), it may also have possessed a tinge of referential meaning for the users of these writings. The character wa in the ominuki stands for the common Japanese particle wa は, but at the same time alludes to its conventional referent, harmony. The character butsu (hotoke), which recurs frequently in Fuji religious texts, functions in the ritual diagrams as an almost meaningless but vaguely honorific particle that plays on the word for “Buddha.”84 In sum, even though these and other characters’ main function was phonetic, they likely also possessed some connotative power, and within those parameters were “partially understood.” Finally, single Chinese characters were also singled out and displayed in Fuji image-texts for their talismanic efficacy. For example, the character san 参, a homophone of the ideograph for mountain, 山, carried special meaning in Fujikō. It became a designated component of the mountain’s formal title in the ominuki and was inscribed on Fuji healing talismans that were widely

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disseminated in the late Edo period.85 In some cases a thousand san characters were printed on a sheet of paper and then cut out one by one to form small, single-character fusegi. The character bits were mixed with water and immediately swallowed by the patient in the belief that imbibing a solution of san—in other words, drinking Mount Fuji—ensured that the mountain’s power would reside in one’s body and drive out afflictions.86 Physically ingesting potent words or symbols was (and is) practiced in any number of Japanese religious communities; the Fujikō version is simply one variation of this ritual therapy.87 In early modern Japan these bodily actions and processes—uttering, viewing, affixing, swallowing, digesting—were often considered the most effective means of engaging with or drawing on powerful spiritual forces, and thereby effecting well-being. In the Fuji faith as well, the special words of the ominuki and fusegi operated in a variety of ways—whether vocalized, contemplated, or placed on (or in) the body—to activate the mountain’s transformative power.

Channels of Transmission Unlike the talismanic glyphs and siddhaṃ that perform the role of “the incomprehensible” in Daoist and Buddhist ritual works, the characters in Fuji imagetexts are fundamentally ideographic. Even Kakugyō’s invented or revealed characters are composed of elements that in themselves suggest a degree of referential meaning—at least to the initiated. Like the Pali words in Tambiah’s Thai rituals, the Fuji talismanic language was not beyond the ken of advanced practitioners who possessed a modicum of specialized understanding. Because most of the neo-ideographs were rearrangements of existing Chinese character elements, such as the phonetically employed characters mentioned above, they embraced levels of meaning that were not entirely unrelated to the usual significance of their component elements. The neo-ideograph  in the ominuki is pronounced “soku,” a reading often associated with the character 即 in Sino-Japanese Buddhist texts.88 Kakugyō’s composite may indeed have gestured toward the core meaning of soku in Buddhist texts (roughly, “is”), but the component elements of  also introduce a new complex of meanings, probably related in some way to their individual referents—the sun (or sunlight), heaven, the moon, the fifth lunar month, and so on. An advanced practitioner would presumably have been able to parse this and other revealed characters in such a way as to highlight the pertinence of each component element to the Fuji religious vision. Under the right conditions Kakugyō’s seemingly illegible language held out at least the promise of comprehensibility.

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Not all of the founding figure’s revealed characters can be dissected in this manner into recognizable components, but even the most puzzling bits and pieces of the ominuki afford a glimpse of the ideas that inspired his followers. Gil Raz has described a parallel dynamic in Daoist talismans: “The incomprehensibility of the talismanic writing is not nonsensical. The actual designs on the talismans are inspired by, and based on, recognizable patterns.” Those patterns are in turn “simultaneously suggestive of meaning while defying complete comprehension.”89 In the Fuji case, however, rather than patterns of graphemes it is Chinese ideographic elements that provide this modicum of recognizability. It is significant in this regard that later Fuji practitioners perpetuated this reliance on suggestion by repeatedly glossing and revising Kakugyō’s image-texts in hermeneutical acts called ohiraki (literally, “opening up”). The community members used this term to refer both to Kakugyō’s original analysis of the truth in his ominuki and to later followers’ explications and rearrangements of the ritual diagrams. In the first phase of the ohiraki process, Kakugyō “opened up” the teachings of Sengen by reassembling Chinese character elements to form new ideographs and correlating them in turn with Japanese phonemes or sound syllables. Later interpreters further disclosed the meaning of these teachings by inserting, removing, and generally rearranging the textual and pictorial elements in the ominuki, again drawing on wisdom they had purportedly attained through individual acts of renunciation. The unlocking of the revealed phrases and characters involved not only reorganizing and revising their components but also explaining their overall meaning to the larger community. Indeed, the ability to unpack the clusters of concealed insights embedded in these ritual works became more or less a qualification for leadership in the group.90 The practice of ohiraki accordingly brings into relief another type of language found in talismanic texts, still following the Tambian model: portions of the ominuki and fusegi were neither broadcast nor understood—except by a select few. I have indicated that the pronunciation of the revealed characters contained in the liturgies and formulae was initially handed down orally in the Fuji religious community; but the group worship of the ominuki as icons and the rhythmic chanting of their contents were relatively open activities and in that sense can hardly be considered a form of secret transmission. Nevertheless, from the outset of the movement certain strings of words (especially those inscribed on fusegi slips) were apparently meant to remain obscure and to be restricted in circulation. Kakugyō had purportedly received their meanings and readings from Sengen and shared them exclusively with his designated successors, who in turn passed them on to later group leaders. Even late in the Tokugawa period, Fuji mountain guides (sendatsu) were instructed

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not to chant certain “secret verses” or healing formulae loudly but to retain them “in the mouth” (kōchū), that is, to mumble the words softly.91 The concern with secrecy and its corollary, lineage, was common in Japanese social groupings of the time, and the incipient Fuji movement was no exception. The early Tokugawa period is sometimes characterized as a time when ritual, intellectual, literary, and other bodies of specialized knowledge that had previously been restricted to designated schools or lineages through secret transmission became more accessible.92 But the deterioration of esoteric transmission practices was a gradual process, and during the seventeenth century the claim to communicate special knowledge through exclusive channels still operated in a number of contexts.93 Particularly in the sphere of talismanic production the culture of secrecy associated with postmedieval interpretive systems almost necessarily persisted. It is in relation to the esoteric dimension of the Fuji image-texts that their utilization as a means of authentication should also be understood. To the extent that the written contents of the ominuki and fusegi were not entirely comprehensible, mastery of their meaning, pronunciation, and related protocols served as evidence of a practitioner’s qualification to conduct worship and prayer rituals, and to transmit the associated body of knowledge to successors. The fusegi against pestilence mentioned above, which dates from the late Tokugawa period, after Fujikō had spread significantly, displays a rudimentary line drawing of the summit, flanked on either side (reading right to left) by the revealed characters for chichi (Father) and haha (Mother), which as we have seen were regular components of Fuji image-texts (see figure 2.3). Under the main peak is a vertical string of characters, the formal religious title of Mount Fuji, which had been passed down to Fujikō members: San Myōtō Kaisan Ten Tsukihi Sengen Daibosatsu. To the right appears the line Kōkū taisoku myōō sokutai jippō kōkū shin nagetsu taiga nichi, and to the left, Sōmon genshin kon ni i hiraite fūshin hoshi waga kokoro. Taken together these lines reproduce the central formulae of Kakugyō’s ominuki. Note, however, that the last line to the left adds the names of several generations of Fuji leaders: Original Founder Kakugyō, Getsugyōbutsu-kū, Jikigyō Miroku-kū, Hokugyō, and Sengyō.94 The insertion of these practitioners’ names into the talismanic text conceivably lent it even greater power to protect followers against the diseases of the time. More obviously, it served to identify the named individuals as authentic successors to the lineage in question (in this case, the Jikigyō Miroku line of Fujikō). Tellingly, in another branch of the Fuji movement (associated with the leader Murakami Kōsei, 1682–1759), these kinds of talismanic writings were called yurushi no maki, “permission scrolls,” or simply yurushi, “permits.”95 As

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implied by the rubric, they were conferred on practitioners in order to certify their religious status and to impart special formulae to them after they had completed their ascetic disciplines. The fourth-generation Fuji leader Getsugan (who taught Murakami Kōsei’s father, Gesshin), produced several permission scrolls of this kind; Iwashina Koichirō reports that one of the extant versions extends over fifteen meters when unrolled and is entirely “buried in fusegi writing.”96 Kōsei later authored various permission scrolls of the same type (informally known as the “Crow Scrolls,” Karasu no on-maki).97 One exemplar, dated 1714, contains a note to the effect that it was “written after a 100-day standing-andwaiting practice” while another, dated 1723, posits that it was “written on the day when I completed my seventeen-day confinement in the Hitoana entrance to the Pure Land.”98 Like the ominuki and the fusegi, then, the contents of the permission scrolls were understood to be revealed by Sengen to leading Fuji practitioners on the basis of their ascetic accomplishments. At the appropriate juncture these teachers in turn wrote out the transformative formulae on separate hand scrolls and shared them with their close disciples. The permission scrolls evolved in the Jikigyō Miroku branch of the movement into similar multipurpose documents called otsutae or “transmissions.”99 A 1736 text by Tanabe Jūrōemon (Jikigyō’s senior disciple) appears to be the oldest extant example.100 It is composed mostly of Jikigyō’s verses but also includes strophes dedicated to the silkworm god, a number of special formulae (gomonku), the names of various protective deities, and, in conclusion, Jikigyō Miroku’s socalled five-line ominuki. The transmission texts, like the permission scrolls, seemed to have served not only as scripts for ritual and ceremonial use but also as a means of authentication. As such, unlike block-printed talismans and amulets these items tended to be handwritten and restricted in circulation, even among other Fuji adepts.101 One of Tanabe Jurōemon’s transmission texts, for example, displays the phrase kore o yurusu (“I allow this”), signaling that he had authorized the recipient to perform rituals using the formulae listed on the scroll.102 By the mid-Edo period acquiring a teacher’s written approval in this way had apparently become a prerequisite for conducting healing and other prayer rituals in the name of the Fuji group. We know that later Fujikō mountain guides routinely carried their otsutae on their persons, usually in a small folded form (orihon) that could be slipped into a pouch or waistband.103 By all accounts the mountain guides and pilgrimage coordinators in most branches of the Fuji movement made copious use of healing and protective formulae in their outreach activities; some duly preserved records of this ritual knowledge in their family archives. They employed the fusegi slips that their teachers had approved for use in each case, but they also created their own

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versions of these talismanic works, tailoring them to the occasion. In time, however, in parallel with developments in the Shugendō denominations and no doubt other orders of ritual professionals, the Fuji ritual formulae were compiled into collections, affording practitioners a kind of library from which to choose the appropriate “prescription.” An 1860 compendium, for example, reportedly includes 150 Fujikō talismans.104 Like the examples mentioned earlier, they cover the gamut of health problems, from major illnesses such as malaria to lesser issues such as menstrual irregularity, nosebleeds, tinnitus, and alcohol poisoning—as well as nonmedical needs, whether preventing fire, flood, and theft; reducing children’s night crying; or even stopping the neighbor’s dog from barking. Unlike the earlier ominuki-style writings, however, these later Fuji ritual aids usually identify the illnesses or troubles that they were designed to resolve. A fusegi in the 1805 talismanic work by Seigyō discussed above, for example, states that it can eliminate “various kinds of cold, diseases of the womb, and possession of the mind and body.” An appended note adds that it could also be used as a “protective formula for eliminating malaria.” Following a subsequent fusegi in the same record we are told, “The above formula is used for removing plague. It can also be used to send away colds, and . . . as a protective formula against live spirits and dead spirits; difficult childbirth; and sudden illnesses.”105 In other cases the user is specifically advised that “when written in this way, this amulet is to be preserved next to the skin,” or, “produced in this way, this amulet should be stuck to the back.”106 This instructional metadiscourse no doubt helped practitioners to select the correct therapeutic item for their purposes from the many that had accumulated over time in their particular ritual community. In general, however, it seems that the Fujikō fusegi were used not to remedy a single problem but to address multiple conditions or to prevent a range of troubles from commencing in the first place. The slips could therefore be generalized and produced in large numbers in advance of the practitioner’s encounter with followers, rather than only upon request. This trend toward generic production increased in conjunction with the spread of Fujikō in the second half of the Edo period. Getsugan’s testimony that he and his companion wrote out hundreds of talismans in Shimotsuke in the 1680s indicates that these items were often inscribed by hand during the movement’s early stages. Later, however, they came to be printed from wood blocks and distributed widely. The blocks were often kept in the homes of the Yoshida pilgrimage coordinators (oshi), who could thereby maintain control over the production and circulation of the prints associated with the Kitaguchi Shrine and the northern trail. In sum, especially after the Fuji kō multiplied in the late

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eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, these types of ritual aid were not necessarily generated spontaneously in connection with a practitioner’s ascetic regimen, or written out for clients on the spot; they were manufactured in advance and in that sense commodified. The spread of the movement probably also encouraged the practice of inserting master-disciple lineage information on the sheets as a means of certifying authority and maintaining control over prayer rituals carried out in the name of Fujikō. It is worth noting as well that the late Tokugawa fusegi slips tend to abbreviate or even omit line drawings of Mount Fuji and the other visual emblems, such as the torii and three-legged crow, that appear in many of Kakugyō’s ominuki and some of his fusegi.107 The abridgment may reflect the growing desirability of quickly and economically produced amulets as the Fuji movement and the pilgrimage industry expanded. Until the late twentieth century the details and logic of talismanic practices were neglected in histories of religion. They were considered the folk magic of the less-educated estates, as opposed to the scripture-based religion of literate elites. Judging from the Mount Fuji ritual culture we have surveyed, Japanese talismanic writings and practices of the Edo period were far from nonsensical or irrational. The uses of the ominuki and fusegi (as well as the yurushi and otsutae) were carefully conceptualized and designated for particular occasions. Furthermore, these image-texts and ritual writings served numerous purposes— they were not only apotropaic and remedial aids but also icons, liturgical guides, and esoteric transmission documents. One of the distinctive features of talismanic writing in general is that it encourages multiple levels of access and understanding in this way.108 We have seen that the ominuki hanging scrolls were treated in the first place as visual icons—the characters arranged in the shape of Mount Fuji served as a focus for worship among small groups of ordinary followers—but the scrolls also contained special language that was understood to activate the power of the mountain god when correctly read off. The formulae inscribed on the smaller sheets as well were believed to call the deity into being when enunciated in a ritual context. The full meaning and even pronunciation of the more enigmatic portions of the text inscribed on the fusegi slips (and on the permission and transmission documents) were originally restricted to committed members who had successfully completed a program of religious disciplines. The sheets and scrolls accordingly also served as personalized training and lineage certificates. The ominuki and other Fuji ritual writings began to be used for accreditation purposes in this way most likely by the late seventeenth century. In the lower two quadrants of Getsugan’s 1680 ominuki hanging scroll, for example, he is identified as fourth in the line of succession that began with Kakugyō (see figure 1.7).

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In other words, the members of this emerging network of mountain practitioners developed an informal control system that was largely outside the centralizing mechanisms to which most religious communities of the Tokugawa period were subject. Whether in healing events, worship ceremonies, or climbs to the peak, the correct pronunciation, use, and interpretation of the Fuji image-texts were determined by senior practitioners who themselves had been formally initiated into these forms of religious knowledge. It was under the leadership of such individuals that Fuji devotees organized themselves into the local groups or kō that spread widely in the late Edo period. I have suggested that the vocalization of the words of the ominuki and fusegi was indebted to esoteric Buddhist understandings of the transformative capacity of ritual speech, and that the role of seemingly illegible ideographs in these writings was akin to that of the mysterious graphemes believed to activate the power of a supreme force or deity in Shugendō and Daoist ritual writings. Yet the founding members of the Fuji devotional movement did not simply reorganize elements of existing talismanic and liturgical culture. The production and “opening up” of the Fuji image-texts was understood by followers to be closely tied to, and indeed enabled by, Kakugyō’s specific ascetic regimens. The ominuki were material expressions of the founder’s revelatory experiences, and his followers’ later uses and reproductions of these image-texts were believed to enhance their own communion with the god of Mount Fuji in turn. Furthermore, by embedding original ideographs in these devotional objects, complete with unorthodox meanings and new pronunciations, the founding members of the Fuji movement were in effect contesting the restriction of textual expertise to certain socioeducational groups. During the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries the capacity to read and write Chinese was still the domain of select groups in Japanese society—Buddhist monastics, Confucian scholars, and well-endowed merchants, landowners, and samurai. Given the prestige of Chinese characters at the time, it is perhaps not surprising that a group of shopkeepers, craftworkers, and small-scale merchants, most of whom possessed only a modicum of education, would experiment with and reconstruct these markers of written learning in order to activate their own religious program. The drive to ascertain the true meaning of words (whether Chinese or Japanese) did not manifest only in the philological and exegetical efforts of the highly literate during the early modern period. It is well known that advances in printing technology during the seventeenth century and the corollary accessibility of readable genres led, initially in urban areas, to a growing involvement by less-privileged individuals in the creation and consumption of their own literature. During the early Edo period villagers in rural areas as well became steadily more versed in the

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relatively complex styles of Japanese writing that were required for administrative work. This rising literacy, as Richard Rubinger points out, advanced the “political and intellectual independence” of members of these sectors quite beyond that of their medieval predecessors.109 Kakugyō’s and his successors’ character rewritings were, I would argue, an early example of this grassroots interest in the meaning and power of written words in the Tokugawa period. Their brand of religious devotion drew on a rich stock of symbols, rituals, and textual forms, fed as we have seen by the various strains of religious and symbolic knowledge that circulated at the time. By creatively appropriating these elements and selectively contravening the linguistic conventions of the day to express their own experience of deity and to address the ritual needs of the broader populace, these Fuji practitioners crafted a new system of meanings. The government officials who questioned the Fuji leader Getsugan (Maeno Rihei) about his talismanic writings in the 1680s acknowledged as much when they pointedly told him, “Your amulets and talismans are neither Shinto nor Buddhist; the characters are invented and transformed. Hence the Confucian scholars and Buddhist monks in the [daimyo’s] castle cannot read them. In all the over sixty states of Japan, you, Rihei, are the only person who can read them and write them.”110 The ominuki and related talismanic items in this sense represented an implicit challenge to the socioreligious order of the time. Moreover, that challenge arguably involved a commitment to the pictorial role of text. Writing about the history of Western culture, W. J. T. Mitchell has called our attention to the common assumption that words are somehow superior to visual images. Historically, when the so-called masses crossed the line between words and images, creating what he calls “visible words,” they effectively contested that assumption.111 It is highly debatable whether a similar prejudice in favor of the written text was at work in early modern Japanese society, or in premodern East Asia in general. The religious culture produced and consumed by both educational elites and ordinary people often took the form of original syntheses of images and texts, whether exquisite Buddhist pagoda texts and elaborate Neo-Confucian diagrams of the creative forces of the universe, on the one hand, or siddhaṃ-centered mandalas and Daoist talismans, on the other. Such works were hardly subversive. However, the Fuji community’s persistent arrangement of the ominuki text in the shape of Japan’s great mountain—a repurposing of earlier Fuji devotional art, as suggested in chapter 1—like the talismanic reconstruction and rereading of Chinese ideographs discussed above, were departures from the established semiotic and aesthetic order, and as such marked a certain cultural independence. The image-texts that Kakugyō

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and his immediate disciples disseminated in the early Tokugawa period in fact document the emergence of an utterly original worldview. As we shall see in the following chapters, later followers of the new faith in Mount Fuji would elaborate the vision intimated in the ominuki—a cosmos centered on the mountain as the Father and Mother of all things—and supplement it with a distinctive view of the role of human beings in that envisioned world.

C HA P T E R T H R E E

God, Life Processes, and the New Age

The person who is credited with inspiring the transformation of the loosely connected practices, ideas, and social formations surveyed in the last chapters into a viable religious system was the traveling peddler who ended his life on Mount Fuji in 1733. Yet there is minimal evidence that this unassuming man, known in ordinary life as Itō Ihei, possessed the social acumen needed to establish a durable religious community. Jikigyō Miroku, as he came to be called, originated in the Ise region, but he apparently possessed few prospects for a livelihood there and at the age of thirteen moved to Edo to work for a merchant house that dealt in clothing and other goods.1 He began to practice devotions to Mount Fuji when he was seventeen, under the guidance of one of Kakugyō Tōbutsu’s followers of the time, known in the Fuji community as Getsugyō Sōjū (1643–1717). Before long, the young man set up his own shop in the shogunal capital and according to some accounts did quite well. However, after immersing himself in mountain ascetic disciplines for several years, Jikigyō reportedly came to realize that he did not want to spend the rest of his life in the pursuit of material wealth; he gave away the bulk of his property to his relatives and shop clerk, and subsisted from then on as a small-scale trader, buying and selling portable products such as hair oil, candle oil, and the like in the vicinity of Edo, all the while pursuing the religious path ever more intensively. 2 Little more is known about this man’s early and middle years. By all accounts he lived a scrupulously plain life and was something of a loner. His importance for the development of Fujikō and indeed for the history of Japanese religions in general derives less from any personal charisma than from the fact that he articulated in writing new religious ideas about Mount Fuji and that he underscored the significance of these teachings for future generations through his austere lifestyle and dramatic death. In this and the following chapters I assay an analysis of Jikigyō’s teachings, both as recorded in his works and as embodied in his final act. His writings are not elegant in style, but they offer a trove of insights into the cosmology, moral values, and political agenda of this seemingly ordinary man 92

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and, by extension, into the aspirations of Edo townspeople of the early eighteenth century. Jikigyō recorded his thinking most directly in two expository writings: the Unspoken Word (Ichiji fusetsu no maki, completed in 1729 and circulated from 1731) and the Addendum (Osoegaki no maki, 1733). A third work, Realization (Oketsujō no maki, 1732), contains seventy-two verses as well as some prose commentary.3 Perhaps of greatest importance for its influence on later Fujikō members, however, is The Book of Thirty-One Days (Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 1733), an account of Jikigyō’s teachings that he is said to have dictated in daily installments during his last month of life to his follower, Tanabe Jūrōemon (1700–1760). According to the postscript, several weeks after Jikigyō’s death another disciple, Koizumi Bunrokurō (n.d.), transcribed and compiled the daily sermons based on Jūrōemon’s notes. This text therefore differs significantly in style from the works that Jikigyō wrote in his own hand. Furthermore, as a record of the Fuji ascetic’s last words, the Thirty-One Days should be read with care because it circulated extensively in the later Fuji movement and was likely edited to accommodate the sensibilities of group members. Much of the content coheres, however, with views that Jikigyō articulated in his own works, such as the Unspoken Word and the Addendum. In this study I therefore treat the Thirty-One Days as a reasonably reliable report of Jikigyō’s basic ideas as they were handed down to later Fujikō members, while bearing in mind possible modulations or interpolations.4 In his writings Jikigyō consistently returns to two overlapping areas of concern: the creative nature of the god of Mount Fuji as manifested in natural and human life processes, and the trajectory of world salvation, including its social, economic, and political dimensions. This chapter introduces Jikigyō’s conception of deity in relation to the phenomenal world and humankind: the creation of all things, including human society; human reproduction and its implications for women’s ritual status; and the advent of a new age, including the role of human beings in actualizing it. I emphasize that the mountain was the centerpiece of the new group’s creation theory, which envisioned all parts of the universe, especially human beings, as coparticipants in a living, productive ecosystem; and that Jikigyō Miroku’s affirmative view of women’s religious and moral capacity was inspired by this larger picture of life processes centered on the dual-gendered Mount Fuji. The chapter also explains Jikigyō’s vision of a new world of prosperity and social harmony, which he called the Age of Miroku. For the Fuji ascetic, the actualization of the new age depended on human beings’ devotion to the deity of the mountain—demonstrated not only or even primarily in worship rituals and pilgrimage practices but in the wholehearted pursuit of moral integrity in daily life. This conception of world salvation undergirded the

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Fuji ascetic’s economic views as well, which we will analyze in the next chapter before turning in conclusion to the question of how and why this man ended his life prematurely on the mountain.

Deity and Creation The gods and buddhas associated with Mount Fuji in the Tokugawa period were an eclectic mix, as vividly demonstrated by its visual culture, some of which we encountered in chapter 1: the esoteric Dainichi Buddha with his mandalic retinue of buddhas and bodhisattvas; the welcoming Amida Buddha; Japanese creator kami (including Amanominaka-nushi, Kunitokotachi, and Izanagi and Izanami); and, most conspicuously, the mountain deity, Asama (浅間, alternatively pronounced “Sengen”), who had long been understood as Mount Fuji’s protector god and as a provisional manifestation (suijaku) of Dainichi.5 Kakugyō and his followers’ innovation was to identify Sengen (written 仙元) with Moto no Chichihaha (True or Original Father and Mother), also called Tsukihi (Moon and Sun)—the great, dual-gendered Parent in whom all the above were understood to be fundamentally grounded—and with other forms of deity, especially Chōjitsu Gakkō Butsu (Buddha of the Everlasting Light of Sun and Moon).6 This pantheon would be further expanded later in the Edo period by the incorporation of the god Kōshin’s monkey-delegates (emblematic of Mount Fuji’s eponymous kōshin pilgrimage years) and by renewed interest in the Shintoesque goddess Konohana Sakuya-hime, who had traditionally been identified with Mount Fuji.7 The center of interest in the religious vision of Kakugyō and his successors, however, has more to do with the internal dynamic of the mountain god than with any static identity presented to worshippers. We have seen that images of the moon and sun were de rigueur in visual portrayals of Mount Fuji, as in the pilgrimage mandalas discussed earlier. In Kakugyō’s and his followers’ artifacts, the importance of these luminaries and their envisioned interaction is ideographically accentuated as well. The conventional Chinese characters for moon and sun recur frequently in the ominuki, and the revealed characters for Father and Mother, which flank the central axis, are often visually correlated with the two spheres in the upper tier of the image-texts.8 In these works the graphic contraposition of words and symbols considered complementary in meaning, namely chichi-haha (father-mother) and tsuki-hi (moon-sun), unambiguously marks the symmetrical structure of the group’s religious universe. The dual orientation is also manifest in the arrangement and internal composition of other revealed characters in the ominuki, such as taisoku and kōkū, whose component

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elements allude to the same two forces. Myō 明, the initial character of Mount Fuji’s honorific title (Myōtō Kaisan) in these writings, also combines the moon 月 and sun 日 ideographs. The dominant theme in the ominuki, expressed both textually and pictorially, appears to be the interaction of the two cosmic forces that produce and sustain all things. Paired references to the sun and moon are commonplace, in Japan as in other cultures, but in early Tokugawa Fuji discourse they are distinctively identified with a particular extrusion of the Japanese landmass—a divine upwelling that was imagined to be the parental source of all things. That is, from the origins of the movement the mountain did not serve simply as an aesthetic emblem of the yin and yang forces of the universe or, in an esoteric Buddhist idiom, of the Womb and Diamond Realms of Mahāvairocana Buddha.9 Judging from the image-texts they produced, Kakugyō and his immediate followers understood Mount Fuji more concretely and intimately as the gendered progenitor and nurturer of human beings—a wellspring of fatherly-motherly power and compassion. The persistence of the idea of the mountain as a parent-creator among the network of shopkeepers and artisans who came to identify themselves with Kakugyō’s version of Fuji devotionalism later in the seventeenth century is documented in turn in their own ominuki and other ritual writings. For example, in a collection of talismanic formulae attributed to Jikigyō’s teacher, Getsugyō Sōjū, the “double parent” (futa-oya no oya) is identified as the source of all the waters of the world.10 The orthographic and pictorial allusions to the mountain’s dual-gendered nature that occupy such a prominent position in the early Fuji community’s ritual culture were elaborated into a veritable creation theology by Jikigyō Miroku. Following a circular logic not uncommon in creation mythologies, the author of the Unspoken Word tells us that the Father and Mother, who fundamentally are Mount Fuji, both produced the mountain and were born on it.11 More precisely, Moto no Chichihaha originated in Mount Fuji, in the main northern cave, Gotainai (literally, Womb), which is explicitly identified in the text as the primal source of cosmic male-female (yin-yang) energies.12 The description of the Parents is far from abstract. In the Unspoken Word each is said to possess a distinct body made of gold—though the Mother’s body weighs twenty kanme less than the Father’s.13 The cave is said to be comprised of four chambers, each identified with a distinct aspect of the mountain deity and arranged according to the four directions; the Father’s cave faces west, and the Mother’s, east.14 We learn from the same account that Mount Fuji first came into existence when the world was nothing but an amorphous, muddy ocean. The Father and Mother joined forces, reached down underneath the water, and

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caused the mountain to rise up, amid wind and waves, from the frothy waters.15 The narrative clearly echoes the classic Japanese creation myth, in which a male and a female kami cause the Japanese islands to emerge from murky primal waters.16 In the Fuji case, however, after the great mass of the mountain surfaces from the watery chaos, it takes over the next phase of the creative process itself rather than commissioning offspring deities to develop and govern the natural and human world. The physical reality of the volcano thus remains front and center in the group’s version of the story. The timeline of the creative process is also interpreted distinctively: the mountain created the land of Japan within fifty years of its own appearance, followed by an overlay of natural phenomena within the next fifty years.17 The seeds of human beings (and of rice) were disseminated from the body of the Father and Mother during the subsequent hundred years, proliferating in due course until Japan’s population reached 5,300,000,000.18 In the view of Jikigyō and his teacher, Getsugyō, both the natural world and human society were direct manifestations of (and, effectively, cocreators with) God. The astral bodies were also actors in this mutually generative ecosystem. According to the Unspoken Word the Original Father and Mother installed one star for each of the trillions of human beings to whom they gave birth.19 Stars played a vital role in the medieval and early modern Japanese imagination, notably in Shugendō and Onmyōdō symbology, and their function in Fuji talismanic culture seems to have been similarly meaningful.20 Kakugyō makes multiple references to stars in his ritual diagrams, both in a generic sense and as distinct bodies (such as Venus or Mars). Some of his drawings set out fullfledged correlative schemata in which the important stars are systematically identified with their associated natural elements and directions, following the Chinese system of correspondences (figure 3.1).21 Like the moon and the sun, however, the several trillion stars created by Mount Fuji were not simply abstract signifiers—in the Fuji universe of meaning they, too, possessed agency. The Unspoken Word lists 150 “officer-stars” (oyakunin-boshi), including the morning star, assigned to the emperor; the midnight star, for the imperial consort; and the dawn star, a guard (hikae-botoke) for the shogun himself.22 For that matter, the very landscape features of Japan, especially its mountains, are appointed official functions in Jikigyō’s discourse. We are given to understand that Japan’s mountains are authorized guards in the service of Sengen—each one is responsible for a specific Mount Fuji jurisdiction.23 To cite one example, the nearby peak, Takaosan, is the officer in charge of Little Buddha (Kobotoke), a mountain pass on the way to Mount Fuji that was frequently used by pilgrims from the Kantō plain.24

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Figure 3.1.  Kakugyō ominuki. Late sixteenth or seventeenth century. Source: Hirano Eiji, Fuji shinkō to Fujikō, 56.

It is apparent even from this brief excursus into Fuji creation mythology that the elements of the physical universe, from the celestial bodies to the topographical features of the mountain, played a lively role in Jikigyō’s and his followers’ world of meaning. The various key players of the cosmos, beginning with the parental god of Mount Fuji, were envisioned as sustaining the universe through their perpetual practice, providing a model in this regard for the Fuji practitioners themselves. Writing of today’s mountain practices at Mount Akakura in Aomori Prefecture, Ellen Schattschneider has described “the mountainscape as a vital mediating site where human worshippers may gradually embody the powers and qualities of the kami.”25 The early Tokugawa Fuji devotees assimilated themselves to their mountain and its deity in a similar sense, but judging from the description in the Unspoken Word their relationship with Mount Fuji was conceived as more reciprocal, or perhaps mutually mimetic. Sengen and the Buddha of Sun and Moon (Chōjitsu Gakkō Butsu) are said to engage in roundthe-clock religious austerities and thereby attain salvation (saido).26 Even the sun performs disciplines in order to “raise its rays.”27 The mountain as a whole comes across as a kind of stage for its own ascetic drama—the Father and Mother, Sengen, and Sun and Moon all participate in rigorous practices at the summit

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(specifically, at a spot called Hi no miko, or Sun Child).28 We are told that “the Father and Mother are the Original Great Bodhisattva, Sengen 浅間. The Ruler, too, the Great Bodhisattva, Sengen 仙元, too, the Buddha of the Everlasting Light of Sun and Moon, too—all are children of the Father and Mother. All the other gods, too, the grasses, trees, and all the fishes in rivers, as well—all things that exist between heaven and earth are officers who serve as the hands and feet of the body of the Father and Mother.”29 The overall picture is one of endless, dedicated productivity. Mount Fuji, human beings, and the rest of the phenomenal world— the land of Japan, agriculture, the natural elements, the celestial bodies—actively enjoy interdependent and mutually generative relations, made possible by energetic practice. Rice and water were especially esteemed for their contribution to this cosmic ecosystem. Both are regularly described in Jikigyō’s writings as vital repositories of the mountain’s power. Rice (which he calls the “true bodhisattva”) originated as a transplant from the body of the True Father and Mother.30 The seeds were first cultivated at a five-thousand-koku estate in Kashima; fertile soil was purposefully transported to the site and irrigated with water from the mountain’s crater. From there rice agriculture spread throughout the country.31 The identification of rice with deity and the associated idea that it originated in Japan were certainly not novel claims at the time, though the notion that rice seeds initially emerged from Mount Fuji is a distinctive variation on the theme.32 Following a similar logic, water, too, is repeatedly linked in Fuji cosmological discourse with the mountain’s creativity. The entire universe arose from primal waters; the moon, closely associated if not equated with the mountain, was the source of water, which in turn was the key to rice production and thus, prosperity.33 Jikigyō applied the same relational thinking to the position of human beings in the natural environment. Humans were of inestimable value because under the right conditions they produced food (rice), the fundamental source of life, and most everything else as well, including the gods and buddhas.34 In the Unspoken Word the land itself is characterized as intimately related to, indeed generated by, the human body.35 While all components of this ecological system were of essential value, then, human beings were pivotal to its successful operation. In other writings Jikigyō Miroku elaborated this vision further by correlating the constituent parts of the mountain with aspects of human physiology. In the Thirty-One Days, the Fuji ascetic describes the mountain as a human body: “The rocky cliffs [are] its bones, the [streams of] water its blood, the ground its flesh.”36 In this text not only the terrain but even meteorological events are said to be the mountain’s gestures: rain falling on Mount Fuji is the trickling of its bodily liquids, the wind blowing over its slopes is the mountain’s breath.

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This kind of homologizing of a mountainscape with the human body was part of a time-honored tradition in premodern East Asian literature, ranging from ancient Chinese topographical discourse to medieval Buddhist poetry.37 But in the early modern Japanese context religious conceptions of mountainbodies were also directly inspired by the concrete needs of working people in rural areas. The elements of sustenance associated with mountains (land, water, rice) were considered integral in these sectors to agricultural productivity and human fertility, and by implication to health and prosperity. In the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the latter concerns also loomed large for the urban dwellers to whom Jikigyō Miroku’s interpretation of Fuji devotionalism increasingly appealed.

The Female Mount Fuji The vision of an organic cosmos sustained by complementary dual forces striving toward a state of equilibrium and harmony was a structure of thought that permitted some Fuji followers to extend their religious thinking on certain issues beyond the largely Buddhist- and Confucian-inspired orthodoxies of the day. Later members of Jikigyō’s lineage in particular (those associated with Fujidō) came to assert startlingly unconventional views of the ideal relations between the sexes and of the important role of women in the Age of Miroku. Yet these seemingly protofeminist ideals, perhaps inspired by remarks attributed to Jikigyō Miroku, ultimately remained tied to a framework that left unquestioned a long heritage of restrictive views of women’s proper behavior. In the record of the sermons that Jikigyō gave while he fasted to death at Eboshi Iwa (Eboshi Rock) on Mount Fuji, he expresses a high valuation of the female role in human reproduction and strongly affirms women’s ritual purity. These ideas are not emphasized as clearly in the works that Jikigyō himself penned. As Ōtani Masayuki stresses, the account of Jikigyō’s teachings in The Book of Thirty-One Days may have been modified to appeal to a broad following as the movement spread in the generations after Jikigyō’s death.38 Conceivably the stress on women’s intrinsic purity and moral capacity was added by late Tokugawa editors to address the interests of female members. The remarks that Tanabe Jūrōemon attributes to Jikigyō in the Thirty-One Days cohere well, however, with the gendered picture of the universe that we find in the ascetic’s earlier writings and in the ritual materials that Kakugyō Tōbutsu and his followers had produced in the seventeenth century. The dynamic of creation and reproduction, both cosmic and human, was a recurring motif in this group from its earliest stages. The various ominuki, as we

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saw in the preceding chapters, consistently portray a universe emanating from and guided in its workings by Mount Fuji’s dual constitutive forces, identified in anthropomorphic terms. Moreover, in the late seventeenth century the specifically human dimension of this creative activity (conception, gestation, and parturition) seems to have been an abiding concern among Kakugyō’s followers. It is worth noting in this regard that the fourth-generation leader of the group, Getsugan, possessed a Buddhist-inspired treatise on embryology.39 By the early eighteenth century members of the emerging network of Fuji devotees were producing their own discourse about correlations between the agrarian cycle, women’s bodily processes, and the parental Mount Fuji. A work dated to 1712 that is attributed to Jikigyō and/or his teacher Getsugyō proposes the following web of correspondences: The rice bodhisattva is supreme. It is the seed of the Father and Mother. Accordingly, food, too, is the bodhisattva, and the body, too, is the bodhisattva. Hence, the season for rice to sprout and the season for human beings to be born is based on the same principle: the birth of human beings and the birth of rice is the same thing. We speak of woman as the bed in which seedlings grow, and of the menstrual fluids during the seven days of the month as flowers. When the bodhisattva blossoms, at the fifth hour of the morning [8 o’clock] the bud turns toward the east, the mouth opens, and the flower comes out. Then, facing southwest, it gradually divides itself . . . after that, it develops into a body [mi].40. . . . In ten months [rice seedlings] reach completion. Human beings, as well, are born after ten months.41 In Jikigyō’s later Unspoken Word (completed in 1729), he discusses in more detail the operation of the male and female forces of the universe, and the cocrea­ tive role of human beings as microcosms of the parental mountain, mentioned above. The concern with “investigating the principles” of human birth recorded by his disciples in the Thirty-One Days was a natural outgrowth of this ongoing interest in the Fuji religious movement.42 We may surmise that by the time Jikigyō began his last ascetic stint on Mount Fuji in the sixth month of 1733, he and/or his immediate disciples had absorbed (or developed) a rather detailed conception of how human beings are conceived and born—a process that is directly correlated in the Thirty-One Days with Mount Fuji’s generation of all things. According to Tanabe Jūrōemon’s report, while Jikigyō was completing his fast at Eboshi Rock he carefully explained that the foundational essence (moto) of a new life resides in the uterus in the form of a dewdrop.43 This droplet is a

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blessing from the Moon and Sun, or Sengen: our Original Parents “combine into one form” and implant this “true jewel” (magatama) into the mother’s womb. In the text the Fuji ascetic makes a point of specifying that the dewdrop comes from the crescent moon (mikazuki)—in other words, it is deposited at the minimal point of the lunar cycle.44 Menstruation ceases at that point in time, just as the moon “stops,” confirming that the essence of all things, the “autumn seed,” has been sown. It is for this reason, we are told, that the menses are called “moon waters” (tsukimizu).45 The droplet solidifies into an embryo, and during the gestation period the rice that the mother consumes develops the “jewel-spark” into a human being.46 In short, in this view the germ of human life is a tangible extraction from the dual-gendered mountain deity, our Father and Mother.47 Somewhat contradictorily, however, in Jūrōemon’s account Jikigyō also strongly implies that the female body is itself the foundation of the new life: “Fundamentally a woman’s body is the source of the seed of the child. All things are inborn in one’s body.”48 Indeed, one might infer from this discourse, which concentrates overwhelmingly on the maternal dimension of reproduction, that no creative contribution comes from the human father at all—the spark of life is emitted by a parental Mount Fuji and then is somehow innately endowed in the female body. The identification of mountains with female bodies in Japanese lore is often characterized as a form of native belief in mountain goddesses, with mountain religious austerities interpreted in a Buddhist key as stages in the male practitioner’s journey through the female kami’s “territory.”49 By the Edo period the life processes associated with reproduction—the conception, fetal development, and birth of a child—were well-known metaphors for phases in mountain ascetic training.50 Religious activities on Mount Fuji (whose deity, Asama, was traditionally considered female) had similarly been rendered meaningful for both professional yamabushi and male pilgrims through the assertion of homologies between features of the mountainscape and the intimacies of the female human body.51 Not unexpectedly, then, in the Thirty-One Days we find descriptions of Funatsu Cave (Gotainai) on the northern slope as a birth canal or uterus.52 Another cave is also characterized as a vagina-like hollow, “shaped like a woman’s open gate” (kaimon), in which practitioners ritually confined themselves. In the same vein the text compares the thicket of vegetation and trees on the lower slopes of the mountain (below the fifth station) to the pubic hair that “covers up” the opening to the vagina.53 Mount Fuji is not really depicted as a stage for men’s rites of passage in the Thirty-One Days, however. Rather, the mountain is more pointedly interpreted as a manifestation of the womanhood of the Fuji deity—a kind of macro version of the female followers themselves.54 Along these lines Jikigyō is said to have

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suggested, for example, that women’s hair is called kami no ke because it is “God’s hair,”55 that the mist over the mountain is a women’s “inked eyebrows,” and further that the red and white makeup on a woman’s face is the moon and sun—that is, the Father and Mother.56 Women’s clothing also reiterates the mountain’s appearance.57 The snow (yuki) on the higher reaches of the mountain is the arm and shoulder measurement (yuki) of a woman’s garment, the ridgeline (sode) of the mountain is her garment’s sleeve (sode); and Mount Fuji’s foothills (suso) are the hem (suso) of her gown. The mountain’s height corresponds to the length of a person’s clothing, and the changes in appearance of the mountain as the seasons pass demonstrate the stages of human life—Mount Fuji accumulates white snow on its peak in the winter, just as people accumulate white hair on their heads as they grow old. Not all these analogies construe the mountain as exclusively female, but as a rule the Jikigyō of the Thirty-One Days insists that Mount Fuji and women enjoy a special, intimate relationship. He not only suggests poetic correlations between particular topographical features of Mount Fuji and women’s body parts; he unequivocably declares that, as a whole, “Sengen Daibosatsu unmistakably has the form of a mother,” and furthermore that “human bodies are equal, male and female, but among them Sengen originally vowed to save especially women.”58 The mountain is also depicted as the source of tangible benefits to women in particular; the text suggests, for example, that the female faithful (shinjin no joshi) who ingest the water collected from the interior of the cave will be ensured a plentiful supply of breast milk after giving birth.59 The affirmative characterizations in the Thirty-One Days of women’s relationship with Sengen and Mount Fuji were perhaps enhanced in later renditions of the text to appeal to female followers, who increased in number as the Fujikō network expanded in the late Edo period. Indeed, Jikigyō’s putative comments about the value of women recall those of earlier Japanese religious leaders who, no doubt with an eye to encouraging female believers, affirmed women’s capacity for salvation even as they assumed the validity of existing patriarchal mores.60 However, even though the Thirty-One Days is not a verbatim record of Jikigyō’s last sermons on Mount Fuji, the gist of his discourse on female purity in the received text cannot simply be dismissed as a later interpolation. The Fuji leader’s commitment to the gendered nature of the mountain god manifested itself not only in positive rhetoric about the female features of Fuji topography or women’s central role in the reproductive process. He (and in due course his followers) also drew distinct inferences for women’s devotional life. Religious practitioners in Japan traditionally followed regimens of self-purification, including avoidance of certain foods, sexual activity, and other presumed sources of defilement, in preparation for performing certain rituals, including mountain pilgrimages. We saw

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in chapter 1 that visitors to Mount Fuji in the Muromachi and early Edo periods were expected to prepare themselves by carrying out cold-water austerities and periods of abstinence under the guidance of the shrine staff, mountain guides, and oshi who were associated with the Ōmiya, Murayama, and Yoshida establishments. Protocols of this kind were required especially after exposure to polluting contexts, namely those involving death or blood. Male pilgrims were expected to avoid pregnant and menstruating women on these grounds, and the same rationale was used to keep women from climbing Mount Fuji and other hallowed mountains in Japan. In contrast, Jikigyō took seriously the premise that human beings were divine microcosms; both men and women embodied Moto no Chichihaha, and as such neither had any need of special rituals to cleanse themselves of impurities, much less did women have to avoid the mountain during periods of “defilement.” The female cycle was part of the creative activity of the Moon-and-Sun Parent, hence the menstrual fluids, or “flower-waters,” as Jikigyō called them, were not unclean—on the contrary, they were auspicious. In Tanabe Jūrōemon’s account, during Jikigyō Miroku’s last month of life the ascetic stated unequivocably that “the justification for shunning the heaven-endowed menstrual waters of harmony is utterly mistaken. However, at present there is no effort to change this mentality. In the worship of Moon-and-Sun Sengen, menstrual blood is not impure.”61 The same regard for the fundamental purity of life processes applied to pregnancy: even if a pregnant woman were to “untie her pregnancy belt” in front of a shrine to Amaterasu, the kami “would rejoice, for it is not impure.”62 Not only in the Thirty-One Days but also in the earlier Addendum (a work in Jikigyō’s own hand), the Fuji ascetic asserts that “for both men and women it is not a problem to make the pilgrimage . . . on moon days or days of joy”—that is, during exposure to menses or pregnancy.63 In this view menstruation and pregnancy were above all felicitous states of being, not causes of contamination. By the early eighteenth century the staple discourse of female inferiority, epitomized in the so-called Five Hindrances and Three Obediences (goshō sanjū), was well known across social sectors in Japan, thanks to the proliferation of channels of moral edification.64 In the Thirty-One Days Jikigyō describes these notorious axioms as “expedient means” (hōben) and rejects outright their underlying premise, that women are by nature evil. He allows that women are perceived as more sinful than men because they “pack everything inside and hide it on the outside,” but insists that evil and good are not fixed inborn qualities.65 As long as people cleanse themselves of evil in accordance with the Fuji teaching, we are told, there is simply no distinction between women and men: both are “equally human beings.”66 In short, what Sengen cared about, in this view, was

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not whether women were menstruating but whether they were thinking and behaving virtuously. The waxing and waning of life forces, represented by the moon-sun/malefemale paradigm and frequently articulated in terms of both agricultural and human sexual reproduction, was a common theme in Japanese religious culture both before and after the emergence of the Fuji movement in the seventeenth century. However, judging from Jikigyō’s writings and recorded remarks—especially but not only the transcript of his last sermons at Eboshi Rock—the ascetic was exceptional in his stress on the female role in these processes and in his sharp denunciation of the ritual taboos that he associated with the religious establishment. This position brought into question traditions of defilement and purification that held almost universal sway in the Tokugawa religious and social world, arguably inviting a reassessment in the group of gender-restricted understandings of mountain devotionalism. The Fuji leader’s purported description of the entire lower mountain not simply as a landscape of discrete wombs in which male ascetics might be ritually renewed but as a veritable female colossus engaged in gestating and producing life in a larger, almost cosmic sense may have allowed some women in the movement a sense of special identity as cocreators with the mountain. It is not without significance that in the early nineteenth century female followers made good on this foundation of dissent from the status quo by surreptitiously transgressing the long-standing ban against women (nyonin kinsei) on the mountain’s upper reaches.67 The identification of female creative processes with those of Mount Fuji and the related affirmation of the wholesomeness of the female body did not imply rejection of the social expectations for women that prevailed in the Edo period. On the contrary, according to his disciples’ account Jikigyō advised female members of the Fuji religious community to honor the Three Obediences, avoid wronging their husbands, and properly fulfill their domestic duties. “If a woman attends to these things conscientiously and works diligently without neglecting her household, how is she any different from a man?”68 In short, Jikigyō did not take much issue with the patriarchal mores themselves but rather with the underlying idea that women were by nature impure or evil. The female body was after all the cradle of new life and should be esteemed as such, in this view. Yet women as well as men were expected to live up to their allotted social obligations. The Fuji leader expressed his outlook on these matters by correlating ideal female conduct with valued natural processes. In a passage in the Thirty-One Days that Jikigyō or his editors may have intended especially for female members of the community (many of whom would have been occupied with weaving and silkworm cultivation), it is implied that the silkworm goddess Kaiko-hime has

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special significance for a wife at home. “The character ‘i’ resides on the kaiko (silkworm); it stays there exactly as promised, without going outside. Women, too, once they marry, do not leave the home. Confinement inside is a celebration of Kaiko-hime.”69 Jikigyō and his followers, anticipating in this regard the later new religions, recognized that the established view of women as ritually impure was inconsistent with the life and productivity that they associated with their parental mountain god.70 To be sure, their emphatic appreciation of women’s special connection with the god of Mount Fuji and its corollary, women’s fundamental purity and moral capacity, coexisted in tension with these practitioners’ support for the dominant values of the Tokugawa order.71 However, the tone of Fuji religious discourse about the ritual status of women and their biological processes was distinctly positive for its time. It drew inspiration from agrarian notions of the value of life and productivity, but in Jikigyō’s circle it took on a more pressing quality insofar as it was tied to these Fuji practitioners’ understanding of the mandate they had received from the Original Father and Mother to restore the equilibrium of the world in the new age.

The Age of Miroku The notion of a universe created and sustained by the interplay of complementary forces (moon-sun, yin-yang, mother-father) encouraged a dynamic social and political vision that promised improvement of class relations as well as of women’s ritual status. Murakami Shigeyoshi and his colleagues in the people’s history movement had not been wrong in pointing out the Fuji ascetic’s acquiescence in the so-called feudal system of the Tokugawa period, even as they deemed the movement he inspired a “seed of modernization.” Jikigyō Miroku did not advocate real change in the Tokugawa social order. Like other religious and intellectual leaders of his time he assumed the value of the class system, in which samurai were ranked above peasants, craftspeople, and merchants, and all people were expected to fulfill their allotted social functions. Probably the most oftrepeated axiom in his writings is the importance of working strenuously in one’s designated family occupation (kashoku); he had a dim view of anyone who did not actively participate in the four-class system in this way (such as monks, nuns, and yamabushi).72 Nevertheless, following his teacher Getsugyō, the Fuji ascetic firmly believed that the god of Mount Fuji had ushered in a new world—a society marked by fairness and consideration for others—and that its full actualization depended on serious adjustments in the way that people related to each other within the

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parameters of the Tokugawa rule. He reportedly stated, for example, “The most important principle is that if one treats people as people, and speaks and interacts with others without looking down on those of lower status, the persons of lower rank will rejoice and will return the favor.”73 The envisioned adjustments did not contradict the accepted moral values of his time; on the contrary, it was the felt urgency of realizing moral standards such as compassion and frugality that propelled Jikigyō’s critique of current religious practices and, ultimately, of the Tokugawa establishment (as we shall see in chapter 5). However, unlike the transformative significance that Yasumaru Yoshio attributed to the ethical idealism of the nineteenth-century popular religions, the reformist posture of members of the Fuji movement in the early Edo period did not stem primarily from a type of moral self-determination that would gradually liberate them from magical or irrational tendencies—in other words, that would direct them away from devotional and ritual activities. Like the members of the later religious movements, Jikigyō and his circle understood personal moral conduct to have important implications for larger social and political reform; but the impetus for their activist outlook derived in the first place from these individuals’ fervent devotion to Sengen and the message of world salvation that the god had revealed to them. The Fuji vision of a new world is believed to have originated in the generation of Kakugyō’s followers that included Jikigyō and his teacher, Getsugyō Sōjū. It is explicated most fully in the Unspoken Word, which was composed over a period of several years, from 1722 to 1729, but which may contain material that originated before Getsugyō passed away in 1717.74 According to the text, the universe evolved through three phases.75 During the first six thousand years following the creation event the world had been under the direct control of Moto no Chichihaha. The subsequent phase, which lasted twelve thousand years, was called the Age of the Gods (Kami no yo). The final period, the Age of Miroku (Miroku no miyo), had begun in 1688 and would last thirty thousand years.76 It should be noted that while the choice of the name Miroku for the new age was probably loosely related to popular conceptions of a future buddha, Jikigyō explicitly states that miroku 身禄 is not Miroku 弥勒 (Maitreya) Buddha. In Fuji religious discourse “miroku” more generally indicates an auspicious force or mode of being associated with the fulfillment of an ideal world.77 The character of each of the three ages, including its social and political conditions, was determined by the conduct of both gods and human beings. At the end of the primal age Moto no Chichihaha is said to have given responsibility for the world to the goddess Amaterasu; Japan thus became known as “the land of the gods.” In this view Amaterasu—today considered the premier Japanese kami, closely associated with the imperial family—was a distinctly lesser being than

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the Original Father and Mother (and Sengen); she was appointed to represent the will of the Father and Mother in this world, but otherwise possessed little authority. In fact, in the Unspoken Word the gods as well as buddhas and bodhisattvas in general are depicted as mere human creations. During the Age of the Gods people had become spiritually weak; they had mistakenly prayed to these various deities, unaware that only devotion to the all-powerful god of Mount Fuji would ensure fulfillment of their needs and hopes. Indeed, according to the text, “beginning with Tenshō Daijingū [Amaterasu], all things, as well as the gods and buddhas, were fabricated in order to soften people’s spirits.” 78 Because of this state of affairs human beings had become estranged from their Original Father and Mother, the very source of their existence. Jikigyō called people’s misguided way of thinking in this regard an attitude of kage negai—that is, they habitually relied on subsidiary spiritual powers rather on their real Parents, with whom they were naturally and intrinsically connected. Kage ordinarily denotes the idea of a shadow, reflection, or perhaps simulation. The force of the term in Jikigyō’s usage derives from its opposition to “ jiki negai,” direct prayer or request. “Indirect request” is thus a possible rendition of “kage negai”—it conveys the idea that people were relying on various minor deities as intermediaries rather than placing their trust directly in the god of Mount Fuji. However, neither “indirect request” nor the alternative, “shadow request,” does justice to the additional layers of meaning of “kage,” specifically the notion of divine blessing or protection.79 The import of “kage negai” in Jikigyō’s discourse is rather “prayer for benefits” or protection from the gods and buddhas. According to Jikigyō people wrongly believed that their troubles were caused by external forces and that they needed to propitiate various spiritual powers with offerings and rituals in order to drive away or shield themselves from these putative negative influences, and thus secure their health and family well-being. It was the Fuji leader’s concern with the persistence of this transactional mentality that provoked his denunciation of the practice of hiring ritual professionals (discussed in the next chapter). In his writings Jikigyō severely criticizes the activities of the Buddhist monks, nuns, and mountain ascetics of his time, but as we have seen, Fuji devotionalism in general was profoundly shaped by Buddhist-inspired ideas, language, and practices. In the Unspoken Word “Shaka” (Śākyamuni Buddha) in fact occupies a positive, if subsidiary, role in the providence of the new age. Jikigyō avers that the Buddha practiced religious disciplines in “the Nanba capital” (Osaka) for fifty years, beginning at the age of twelve, after which he climbed Mount Fuji, using the Yoshida trail in the north. Śākyamuni also allegedly erected a plaque at the Lower Yoshida Sengen Shrine, inscribed with the words “The Greatest Mountain

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of the Three Countries” (Sangoku daiissan), a regular epithet for Mount Fuji in the Tokugawa period.80 According to this account the Buddha enjoyed an important connection with the god of Mount Fuji. Every year beginning on the eighth day of the fourth lunar month Śākyamuni reportedly climbed to the peak and confined himself in the crater in order to confer with the Original Father and Mother, Great Bodhisattva Sengen, and the Buddha of the Sun and Moon. In the aftermath of these interviews he produced the “eighty thousand volumes” of the Buddhist canon and transported them to Nanba in stages over the course of the next twelve years.81 However, before he passed away Śākyamuni apparently failed to reveal to the world at large the critical “one word” that was contained in these writings.82 Instead he secretly deposited this final teaching in a volume of scripture to be conveyed to the emperor of Japan. In other words, it was the emperor’s responsibility to disclose the content of the “unspoken word” to the world at large. However, Japan’s ruler had neglected to do so, and as a result the Age of Miroku was not yet fully operative.83 Jikigyō accordingly took it upon himself to announce the unspoken word that Sengen had revealed to Śākyamuni, namely, that on the fifteenth day of the sixth month of Genroku 1 (1688), a furikawari or cosmic inversion had taken place: Amaterasu’s administration of the world had been terminated and the Age of the Gods had come to an end.84 At this particular juncture a state of equilibrium between the dual-gendered forces of the universe had been reached: “the man-rope and the woman-rope were tied together” at a site called Shaka’s Split Rock (Shaka no wari-ishi) at the mountain’s summit.85 Sengen, representing Moto no Chichihaha, had ushered in the Age of Miroku, a time of harmony and prosperity. Jikigyō believed that people would now pray directly to the deity of Mount Fuji (jiki negai) and thus return to their original state of harmony and communion with the Father and Mother, leading to a complete spiritual and social renewal in the world at large.

Devotion and Morality The envisioned transformation was not exactly revolutionary in nature. The new era would be characterized by mutual cooperation among all classes, guaranteed by a reformist government that genuinely aimed to serve the people, but always within the existing political and social framework. Jikigyō expected the Tokugawa rulers to play their part in building the new society. He reportedly had copies of his written teachings placed in special boxes for the emperor and the shogun, with instructions to the effect that after his death the rulers should open them and fulfill their designated responsibilities as detailed therein.86 Miyazaki

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Fumiko has argued that by the time Jikigyō finished writing the Unspoken Word in 1729, his position on the relative roles of Japan’s rulers and its people in building the new age had shifted somewhat. She suggests that in his later years he placed more emphasis on people’s individual responsibility and correspondingly less on that of the emperor and shogun.87 The realization of the new era would depend mostly on the behavior of ordinary people, that is, on the extent to which they would carry out their moral obligations in devotion to Sengen. As we shall see in chapter 5, however, when the occasion demanded, those obligations also included remonstrating with the rulers to fulfill their own responsibilities in world transformation. It bears reiteration that in the Fuji group’s view the cosmic renewal that marked the commencement of the Age of Miroku had already taken place.88 That is, rather than a millenarian eschatology that looked forward to a future salvific event—such as the arrival of Maitreya Buddha in the age of the declining Dharma—Jikigyō (and presumably his teacher, Getsugyō) understood the teaching of Mount Fuji to be a soteriology for the immediate present.89 Insofar as Sengen had already inaugurated the new age, what lay ahead was primarily its fulfillment by human beings, which in the ascetic’s view meant devotional practices focused on the god of Mount Fuji and the wholehearted pursuit of moral integrity in everyday life. Judging from Jikigyō’s writings and the narratives of his immediate disciples, during his lifetime devotional activities in the group included pilgrimage to the mountain, physical disciplines, and domestic worship. Although the mountain routines of these practitioners are not documented in great detail, we know that they visited Mount Fuji in small groups, and that they engaged in selected ritual preliminaries, such as cold-water purification, as well as devotions at intervals along the trail and at the summit. Some also practiced prolonged fasting and ritual confinement on the mountain.90 In the Unspoken Word, for example, Getsugyō Sōjū describes his religious practice as follows: “I am a Fuji prayer devotee [Fuji gannin]. Until now I have submitted myself to the fields and to the mountains, exerting myself to fulfill my prayer vows and austerities; I have completed pilgrimages to Fujisan in the land of Suruga more than eighty times. I have worshipped our Father and Mother, Great Bodhisattva Sengen, and the Buddha of the Everlasting Light of Sun and Moon, and have striven to accomplish the ascetic practices that I pledged to them.”91 Jikigyō followed a similar pattern, reportedly practicing for extended periods on the mountain every year. Tanabe Jūrōemon tells us that “for forty-five years, up to this year [1733], never forgetting, day or night, the precious value of Fuji Sengen, every year on the fifteenth day of the sixth month, beginning at

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daybreak, around the hour of the tiger [four o’clock], at the spot called Sun Child of the Eight Lotus Petals,92 [Jikigyō Miroku kū] performed obeisance to the sun and confined himself on the mountain for thirty-five days, until [Sengen] released him and he descended the mountain.”93 In his own writings as well Jikigyō declares that in 1688, when he first committed himself to the Fuji faith, he commenced a lifelong regimen of ascetic practices on the mountain and rituals at home.94 Like his teacher, he regularly worshipped the Father and Mother, Sengen, and the Buddha of the Sun and Moon: “I woke up before the hour of the tiger in the morning, performed cold-water austerities, and offered up the first tea and the first meal [to these deities], calling out their revered names three times each and giving thanks for their blessings. I prayed that they would help all beings for as long as this life lasts, for as long as heaven and earth exists, generation after generation, without any limit.”95 In addition, Jikigyō offered sake and rice cakes to Sengen and intoned laudatory verses (allegedly from six in the evening to two in the morning) on four designated days of the month (the third, thirteenth, seventeenth, and twenty-sixth).96 The Fuji leader advised his followers to adhere to a comparable format in their domestic worship of Mount Fuji. Beyond this basic schedule of offerings and prayer, however, he discouraged ritual customs that he deemed unnecessary or not properly centered on the god of Mount Fuji.97 With regard to the pilgrimage as well, Jikigyō is said to have minimized the established ritual protocols. Tanabe Jūrōemon credits Jikigyō with the following remarks in the Thirty-One Days: “From long ago those who climbed the revered mountain completed a hundred days of cold-water austerities and abstinences [kori shōjin] in order to purify themselves. . . . However, those of the Fuji faith are exempt from abstinences and cold-water purification. . . . External purification by means of abstinences and cold-water austerities is the ascetic practice of the world. Internal purification is an illumination of the truth.” Jikigyō also allegedly opposed certain traditional food abstentions; he advised his followers that they need not avoid eating fish before and during the climb (as had been customary). He explained the easing of this restriction by observing that “eating fish reinforces the power of the body and helps nourish one’s life. Also, when one adds [fishbased] fertilizer to crops, they grow tall and come to fruition.”98 Jikigyō did not entirely dispense with the customary preliminaries of the climb. According to Jūrōemon, the Fuji leader allowed that it was appropriate to purify oneself with water and to engage in abstinence for a day and a night before climbing the mountain, and that pilgrims should continue to abstain from meat and several types of fish.99 On balance, however, the Fuji ascetic seems to have been more concerned with how human beings could best contribute to a stable and

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productive ecosystem than with ritual conventions, and he tended to oppose customs and embellishments that he deemed narrowly conceived or unnecessary— including, as we have seen, restrictions against female pilgrimage. It is worth mention in this regard that Jikigyō Miroku’s preferred ominuki format also hints at this predilection for a streamlined approach to ritual life. Over the course of the seventeenth century Kakugyō’s followers each modulated the founding figure’s archetypal image-texts slightly in accordance with their own religious and aesthetic sensibilities. The ominuki design attributed to Jikigyō, however, represents a watershed in the history of ominuki interpretations.100 It consists only of the five core lines of characters in Kakugyō’s template (figure 3.2). This rendition, known as the five-line (gogyō) ominuki, not only eliminates several strings of text but also dispenses with the contour delineation of the mountain’s peak and the small pictorial references that

Figure 3.2.  Gogyō minuki. Jikigyō Miroku, Jikigyō Miroku kū issai no ketsujō yomi-uta. 1732. Kobayashi-ke Monjo, Mie Prefecture Collection. Courtesy of Mie-ken Kankyō Seikatsu-bu, Bunka Shinkōka Kenshi Hensan Han, Tsu.

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inhabit Kakugyō’s and several other practitioners’ ominuki (the torii, mountain topography and vegetation, the three-legged crow, the moon and sun spheres). Nor is there any indication of the eight Buddhist deities of the Womb Realm Mandala, whose names not infrequently decorate Kakugyō-style ominuki. Indeed, with this economical version of the ominuki the evolution of the pictorial Fuji pilgrimage mandalas discussed earlier into displays of liturgical and talismanic script seems to have reached its end point. Jikigyō’s purely textual approach was not unique; predecessors and contemporaries in the Fuji religious community also omitted illustrative elements from some of their ominuki.101 Moreover, he allegedly produced some larger ominuki scrolls that include more lines of formulaic text on both sides of the central axis.102 However, the aesthetic restraint of the five-line version, which became normative in Fujikō, is also emblematic of the reserved religious lifestyle that Jikigyō advocated to his followers in general. Jikigyō expresses most concern in his written discourses, as well as in his transcribed remarks in the Thirty-One Days, with issues of ethical, social, and political reform, rather than with the niceties of ritual worship or “specialized religious pursuits,” as Royall Tyler puts it.103 The Fuji ascetic was particularly focused on persuading his followers that human beings should behave in ways that reflected their intrinsic oneness with the mountain deity. In Jūrōemon’s narrative Jikigyō reiterates that the human heart is a “true gem” because it partakes in the heart of the divine Mount Fuji, which is beyond the limits of time and space. The body, in contrast, is temporary; it is simply on loan for the duration of one’s life, a vehicle through which the mountain deity may act in this phenomenal world—and which therefore must not be used to commit wrongdoing.104 Jikigyō’s constant refrain in all his writings is that people should keep their hearts and minds “straight” (roku), work assiduously at their family occupations, retire at midnight, rise at four in the morning, and pray to Sengen for assistance.105 By all accounts he felt that the heartfelt practice of filial piety, compassion, and frugality, among other virtues, was itself union with Mount Fuji and thus the salvation of oneself and the world.106 The ascetic’s vision of an equitable and prosperous social order in the Age of Miroku was thus firmly tethered to the idea that all people should strive to embody the accepted values of his time. The pursuit of moral integrity should imbue all one’s actions, whether paying respects to one’s deceased parents or climbing the great mountain. As if recalling Confucius’ opening remarks in the Analects, Jikigyō reportedly remarked that morality was to be practiced for its own sake: the rewards would arrive in due course and one should not resent it if they were not immediate.107 Indeed, the Fuji leader waxes almost Neo-Confucian in his concern for constant ethical

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improvement: throughout one’s life one should “correct in the morning the mistakes of the evening [before].”108 It was this unremitting stress on rectitude that persuaded twentieth-century historians of Japanese thought to link the Fuji ascetic’s early eighteenth-century teachings with the cultivation of the “common moral values” (tsūzoku dōtoku) advocated by the nineteenth-century new religions, some of which were indeed informed by the Neo-Confucian paradigm of personal cultivation that circulated widely in the late Tokugawa period.109 However, the soteriological underpinnings of Jikigyō’s ethical program were worlds away from the ideas advocated by most professional Confucian scholars. In particular, despite his putative counsel that one should pursue virtue for its own sake, in his writings Jikigyō makes abundantly clear his belief that people must take account of the karmic effects of their actions. The Unspoken Word is full of exhortations about the pitfalls of the afterworld, described more or less along the lines of the hellish lower tiers of the Six Ways (rokudō) of Buddhist cosmology. We are told, for example, that people who make their living by taking things from others, by deceiving people, or by gambling will dwell in the realms of hungry ghosts, animals, and aśuras, respectively.110 The same text depicts a Middle Hell with various islands, a Great Hell meant for “great thieves” (including murderers, arsonists, evildoers), and a desolate wasteland reserved for creatures who are completely devoid of any goodness whatsoever.111 These descriptors are not toned down in later writings. In both the Addendum and in the remarks attributed to Jikigyō in the Thirty-One Days the Fuji ascetic infuses the discourse of karmic retribution with even greater urgency. He cautions that life in a human body is an invaluable opportunity to seek and practice the truth, and that those who fail to do so, who lead lives of ignorance and evil, will inevitably descend into nonhuman form in a future life. Even if one encounters obstacles in the present life, Jikigyō reportedly asserted, as long as one follows the “sentiments of heaven,” one will definitely attain a higher rebirth, “in accordance with Sengen Daibosatsu’s original vow.”112 Lack of integrity and sincerity will surely invite dire consequences: “One who envies others, displays no restraint, possesses an evil heart, or deceptively curries favor with others will have an evil rebirth—as a wormlike creature, a poisonous snake.”113 Nor was it likely that one could escape karmic punishment in the next life or, for that matter, in this life; according to Jikigyō, even if people purified themselves of their “sinful karma,” one small mistake could propel them back into a hellish realm again.114 Jikigyō invariably credited the enforcement of karmic law to a generalized heaven or kami rather than to the teachings of the Buddha, but his overall portrait

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of the effects of one’s moral choices echoes the graphic descriptions found in the Buddhist tracts, didactic tales, and visual displays of the late medieval period.115 The same warnings about the dreadful consequences of one’s sinful habits in this life continued to pervade popular religious discourse in the early Edo period. Zen preachers of the time, such as Suzuki Shōsan (1579–1655) and Bankei Yōtaku (1622–1693), are well known for their strenuous promotion of standard values such as loyalty and filial piety over and above strict Buddhist practice.116 A similar zeal for meritorious action infused contemporaneous Pure Land Buddhist rebirth tales (ōjōden). The peasants portrayed in these stories do not merely recite the nenbutsu avidly from morning till night—they dedicate themselves unremittingly to their farm work and conscientiously serve their parents and masters. The faithful invocation of Amida Buddha apparently did not guarantee rebirth in the Pure Land; unless one lived a scrupulously moral life and assiduously pursued one’s occupational responsibilities, one would be unlikely to reach the Pure Land no matter how fervidly one repeated the nenbutsu.117 Jikigyō Miroku’s stress on moral living, reinforced by his warnings about the karmic effects of one’s actions, was shaped by the same ethos. Chanting verses and making offerings on a regular basis, as well as engaging in pilgrimage to the great mountain, were important ways to foster oneness with the deity of Mount Fuji, but the real key to personal and social well-being in this life, and to successful navigation of the karmic cycle in the next, was to demonstrate one’s commitment to Sengen by behaving virtuously. The novel ideas that emerged in the Fuji religious community in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries—the dual-gendered nature of the parental Fuji deity, the elaborate processes of creation, the bond between human beings and Mount Fuji, the affirmation of women’s ritual purity, the divine world of equity and harmony—were indubitably distinctive vis-à-vis established religious traditions of the time, but in the final analysis they carried similar implications for ethical action, buttressed by a shared discourse of karmic retribution. Nevertheless, as the remaining chapters of this book demonstrate, the new Fuji teachings, which premised the full realization of the Age of Miroku on personal and social reform, encouraged Jikigyō Miroku and his followers to push the economic and political implications of their vision significantly beyond the margins of other morality programs of their time.

C HA P T E R F OU R

The Appeal for Economy in Ritual Life

A broad-based interest in wealth, both its pleasures and its means of preservation, pervaded Japan’s urban centers during the great cultural efflorescence of the Genroku era (1688–1704). The vicissitudes of material prosperity and their impact on human lives are famously elaborated in literature and drama, such as the “tales of the floating world” (ukiyozōshi) of Ihara Saikaku (1642–1693) and the plays of Chikamatsu Monzaemon (1653–1724), and also in the didactic writings of contemporary merchant-scholars, such as Nishikawa Joken (1648–1724) and Ishida Baigan (1685–1744). As tempting forms of amusement and gratification proliferated in the large cities, shopkeepers, brokers, and traders became increasingly sensitive to the precarious nature of their livelihood. The preoccupation with personal economy seems to have intensified in proportion to the growing availability of pleasure-loving activities in the entertainment districts of Kyoto, Edo, and Osaka. Jikigyō moved to Edo and came of age there during this period of increased material and cultural consumption. He was immersed from his youth in the life of trade, and his eventual stress on diligence and frugality would mirror the common merchant values of his era. Yet his teachings were also a critical response to elements of that chōnin (townsperson) ethos. In order to clarify this dynamic in Jikigyō’s thinking I begin this chapter by characterizing the socioethical environment in which the Fuji ascetic developed his mature views before taking up his particular conception of frugality and his critique of the Tokugawa religious economy. We shall see that the prayer rituals and alms solicitation that Jikigyō associated with established religious institutions weighed heavily on the Fuji leader in his later years, not only because he believed they had economic repercussions that ran counter to the equitable world order mandated by the god of Mount Fuji but also because he felt these activities impeded sincere devotion to Sengen. In the concluding part of the chapter I suggest, contra the conventional view, that Jikigyō Miroku and his followers did not deny the validity of talismanic rituals or healing practices per se, as long as they were carried out within the group and in devotion to the god of Mount Fuji, rather than commissioned for a fee. 115

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The Merchant Ethos By the late seventeenth century Edo had become the leading site of consumption in Japan, populated by a great variety of retailers and skilled artisans who catered directly to members of the samurai class.1 Jikigyō’s departure from his native Ise area at the beginning of the Genroku era to secure work there was part of a massive relocation of laborers, retail workers, and artisans from smaller towns and rural areas to the shogunal capital in response to the rising consumer demands of its inhabitants.2 His initial employment was facilitated by the fact that merchants based in the Ise area, known as Ise shōnin, boasted a powerful presence in the major urban centers of Tokugawa Japan by this time. They maintained networks of connections that held sway over marine shipping through Ise Bay and operated distribution routes along the pilgrimage road to the Ise shrines, which they used to transfer employees to their branch stores, and to move cash and documents by courier.3 By the time Jikigyō arrived in Edo hundreds of Ise shops (Iseya) were clustered together in Edo neighborhoods such as Ōdenma-chō, Honchō, Suruga-chō, and in general the Nihonbashi area.4 The first important Ise merchant house to establish itself in the shogunal capital was the Tomiyama, a family based in Izawa in Matsuzaka, an important port on the Tōkaidō.5 The company’s main textile outlet, Daikokuya, was installed in Edo in 1663, and before long its shops and brokerages began operating in several other locations as well.6 It was during this phase of rapid expansion of the company that Jikigyō Miroku is believed to have obtained employment in a store in the third ward of Honchō that was headed by Jikigyō’s “distant relation,” Tomiyama Seibei. The shop was likely an outlet of the Tomiyama enterprise of Matsuzaka.7 According to his biographers, Jikigyō eventually set up his own business.8 It was the practice at the time for companies to cultivate apprentices and in due course install these trusted employees in affiliated shops; Jikigyō may have enjoyed this type of arrangement with the Tomiyama.9 During this period of growing urban consumption in the seventeenth century, shogunal and domain authorities began to issue sumptuary laws in an effort to regulate spending on personal items such as clothing. Displays of dress or ornamentation on festival days or at weddings, funerals, and memorial services were enjoined along with other perceived lifestyle extravagances.10 However, the public discourse on thrift (ken’yaku) did not routinely target people’s religious expenses per se. Official attempts to restrict how much individuals spent on commissioned ritual services or contributed to temple funds (for restoration projects, for example), are relatively less in evidence. Given that these

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funds were channeled to temples and shrines authorized by the shogunal-domain system, they presumably redounded to the benefit of that system.11 Excessive religious expenditures were nevertheless perceived as problematic in some quarters of Tokugawa society, just as they had been in late medieval times. In the Muromachi period, with the growth of the danka or so-called parishioner system, prosperous lay patrons regularly financed temple maintenance and repairs, and in some cases assisted the clergy in fundraising campaigns.12 Donors presumably made these and other kinds of offerings in order to reinforce their prayers to the god or buddha in question, whether to request help in their business or to give thanks for the success they had already attained. Large donations also served, however, to demonstrate publically the giver’s economic status and business prowess, and were not necessarily an index of the donor’s religious commitment.13 In the Edo period admonitions against excessive outlays for religious activities were articulated most explicitly and frequently by the chōnin themselves. The Hakata merchant and tea practitioner Shimai Sōshitsu (1539?–1615), for example, cautioned his heirs not to become involved in matters of the next world before they reached the age of fifty: their absolute priority should be complete dedication to the family business and thus survival in this life. “Our first consideration should be not to forfeit the respect needed for this life. It is said that even the gods and buddhas do not know about the next world. How much less can ordinary people know!”14 The issue, in other words, was not one’s fate in the next life so much as the risk of exhausting one’s resources in preparation for it. In his Nippon eitaigura Saikaku also highlights the sentiment that “temple-going and preoccupation with the next world” was invariably implicated in “giving too generously to temple funds.”15 The conventional wisdom in merchant sectors was to accumulate a fortune and establish the security of one’s household while young, reserving rituals and almsgiving for old age, when one might justifiably concentrate on attaining a good rebirth in the next life. The values that were impressed on Jikigyō Miroku during his youthful tenure with the Tomiyama company were undoubtedly akin to these and others stressed in the merchant-oriented literature of his time. Workers in commercial houses were drilled in thrift and diligence in a variety of ways, including inculcation in formal rules of conduct that household heads drew up for their employees as well as family codes and testaments that they left to posterity. The Ise merchants who remained headquartered in their home area in the early Tokugawa period were especially keen on devising methods to supervise their Edo retailers and shopkeepers from a distance. They placed native Ise clerks in their Edo shops and corresponded frequently with them through letters and notes; they also

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wrote out shop rules and required their workers to read them out daily.16 The Tomiyama house issued a set of fourteen articles called “Shop rules, protocols, and precautions” intended precisely for this purpose.17 With regard to religious matters the authors of these company manuals, much like other writers of the time, took the position that employees could fruitfully place their faith in the gods and buddhas, including paying their respects at shrines and temples on occasion, but that they should refrain from visiting these sites or engaging in religious exercises frequently.18 In a set of axioms for proper business conduct included in a 1722 house code, Takahira (1653–1737), the second head of the famous Ise company Mitsui, avows that “while it is the way of human beings to revere the buddhas and gods, and to turn one’s mind to the Confucian path, if one overdoes any of these [practices], one will neglect one’s proper household work.”19 More pointedly, he warns, “It is a serious error when a person commits enormous waste [by] throwing away money and valuables for the sake of the buddhas and gods.” After all, the author reasons, “the buddhas and gods are [simply] in that person’s mind.”20 The next Mitsui head, Takafusa (1684–1748), followed suit in his famous Chōnin kōkenroku (“Observations on Merchants,” 1728), in which he recounts the stories of fifty-five merchant households, many of which had failed. (Ise merchants appear in nine of the tales, mostly in a critical light.21) The author blames these multiple bankruptcies on merchants’ loans to domain lords, spendthrift habits, and lack of financial acumen, but also, significantly for our purposes, on exaggerated religious devotion (shinkō). He, too, warns that while following the path of the kami, Confucius, or Buddha may help fend off evil influences (“demons”), overinvolvement in ritual practices would eventually lead to ruin.22 The well-known ideal of “becoming a buddha in this life” (sokushin jōbutsu), Takafusa concludes, is not a lofty pursuit removed from one’s daily affairs: it is simply working hard to accumulate household wealth, loving and nurturing one’s family, living a long life, and thus meeting one’s end in peace, free of worries.23 The view that generous participation in religious activities is unnecessary and indeed a potential threat to economic prosperity was common among the pragmatically minded business people of the time. Striving hard to earn one’s living was itself obeying the wish of the gods and buddhas—in this view, elaborate rituals dedicated to enshrined deities and extravagant donations were not only superfluous but counterproductive. The desirability of economizing in one’s ritual activities and almsgiving was promoted in society not only by merchant writers, of course, but by moralists of all stripes, including members of some religious communities. As the new Mount Fuji devotionalism took hold in the Edo area, critical views of fee-based prayer services and almsgiving

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surfaced among its followers as well. We saw in earlier chapters that healing rituals and associated talismanic usages played a significant part in the outreach activities of Kakugyō and his successors in the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In the eighteenth century, however, prayer rituals became a kind of flashpoint among practitioners who identified themselves with Kakugyō’s style of devotion to Mount Fuji. The validity of “kaji kitō” activities identified with the mountain continued to be contested in the movement in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, when outside observers and government authorities repeatedly disparaged the practices. The polemic against commissioned prayer rituals within the group, however, first surfaced in writing in the works of Jikigyō Miroku.

Direct Prayer to Sengen Jikigyō’s preoccupation with ritual expenses was embedded in conventional notions of personal economy like those articulated in the merchant-oriented literature of the day, but it was also driven by his understanding of the new age ordained by the god of Mount Fuji in 1688 and of human beings’ responsibility to actualize that world transformation. In his writings the Fuji leader conveys a keen awareness of the importance of wealth, but he generally couples references to material resources or money with condemnations of their immoral use. Moreover, he understood the ethics of wealth as a karmic matter that applied across lifetimes. In the talks recorded in the Thirty-One Days, he warns that failure to appreciate the fortune with which one has been endowed in this life will lead to a balancing of the ledger in the next, whether the lowering of one’s own karmic status or damage to the well-being of one’s descendants.24 By the same logic, denying oneself and giving generously to others would virtually guarantee one’s return to human form under more auspicious conditions. This emphasis on a karmic-type rebalancing also informed the Fuji ascetic’s thinking about prayer activity. Jikigyō considered individual prayer to Sengen Daibosatsu to be an essential religious practice that could affect a person’s longterm existential trajectory. “With regard to being born into a higher or lower state in a later age, it is clear that if one does not pray at this time, one will be born in a non-human form. Even if people are in an impoverished condition today, if they are utterly sincere in their intentions, how can the gods and buddhas abandon them?”25 As long as people maintained an attitude of reverence, practiced fervent, direct prayer to Sengen (jiki negai), and fully appreciated the value of rice (meaning, in this context, wealth), in their future lives they would be well compensated (Jikigyō specifies a samurai stipend of one thousand or ten

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thousand koku of rice).26 The quality of one’s prayer life would apparently factor into one’s socioeconomic condition (as well as that of one’s family and community) not only in the present but in future existences as well. It was because of this concern with direct, sincere prayer that Jikigyō was unhappy with the prevalent custom of hiring ritual professionals to conduct services aimed at procuring favors from sundry deities. The habit of petitioning gods and buddhas for this or that benefit derived in his view from a misunderstanding of the nature of the God-human relationship: human beings in their purified state were the dwelling places of the True Father and Mother, and cultivating this unalloyed identity should be everyone’s priority. In this view, turning to small outlets of putative spiritual power rather than seeking access to the cosmic source of all life intrinsic to one’s own being indicated in the first place the individual’s lack of faith in Mount Fuji. On a more pragmatic level, however, hiring ritual agents was a waste of time and money, and therefore a distortion of the balance of resources in human society and the cosmos that Sengen had mandated. Jikigyō was sharply critical of the commercial aspect of prayer services (kitō): “Piling up [wealth] out of avarice, and using that surplus to petition gods and buddhas does not conform with the Way.”27 Beginning with Kakugyō Tōbutsu, however, Jikigyō’s predecessors and contemporaries in the Fuji religious community had actively distributed paper talismans and performed apotropaic services for people who wanted to fend off illnesses and protect their silkworm crops, among other demands. These kinds of activities, in which people endeavored to negotiate with a higher power through a designated intermediary in order to attain specific benefits, had long been a central feature of Japanese religious life. Why did Jikigyō denounce the ritual practices to which he had been routinely exposed, and in which he may even have participated for a time under the tutelage of his teacher Getsugyō?28 The reality of mendicant practices in Japan during Jikigyō Miroku’s time is an important contextual factor in understanding the reasoning behind his position. It is a commonplace that the shogunal and domain system officially tolerated only the religious groups that supported its authority and over which it exerted institutional control.29 The explicit prohibition of new and heterodox religious sects (shingi ishū no kin) early in the period is said to have worked against real religious innovation or reform,30 and the government arguably dampened independent religious life even further by regulating wandering ritualists. By the beginning of the Tokugawa period the customary practice of alms solicitation had come to comprehend a wide range of activities, whether carrying out alms rounds for individual merit, collecting rice and cash on behalf of temples and shrines, preaching and entertaining crowds for donations, performing

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rituals for a commission, or simply begging for a living. Practitioners included representatives of shrines and temples as well as persons who operated without any particular sectarian identity, including traveling performing artists.31 However, as part of its early drive to consolidate power, in 1618 the new government banned individual alms solicitation, ostensibly to prevent peasants from abandoning their farmwork, and soon afterward took action against so-called false mountain ascetics (nise yamabushi) and shrine priests in this regard as well.32 A further series of laws issued in the 1660s constrained many itinerant practitioners, including mendicants who were neither Buddhist monastics nor shrine priests, to place themselves under the authority of designated institutions and guilds. Beginning in 1662 yamabushi as well as unaffiliated ascetics (gyōnin), mendicant monks (gannin bōzu), and various other informal ritualists were required to procure written authorization from their head temples or branch temples in order to practice openly in cities.33 Only officially recognized prayer agents (kitōsha) were now permitted to operate. However, the demand for prayer services in rural areas was often tied to people’s farming concerns, and the authorities did not prohibit these ritual practices unless they were deemed heterodox or noxious teachings that “confused people’s minds.”34 The seventeenth-century shogunal laws and strictures were primarily designed to exert indirect control over ritual practitioners and prevent their consolidation as independent interest groups or collectives. Hence, as Hayashi Makoto explains, as long as they were properly registered with the authorities, even under the new laws “various kinds of religious practitioners were permitted to wander around everywhere and distribute protective talismans in villages and towns, promoting their prayer rituals and performances, and soliciting alms.”35 Murakami Norio also reminds us that while wandering mendicants were usually regarded as lower in status than the regular clergy of shrines and temples, in practice these institutions relied on the itinerants’ services to supplement their revenue base by addressing local needs.36 The net impact of the new Tokugawa policies was therefore the flowering of an “early modern world of solicitation” in which kanjin (solicitation) activities of all kinds proliferated.37 The shogunal authorities periodically sought to impose control over freelance ritualists and mendicants, but in some cases the government seems to have turned a blind eye. A good number of ordinary laypeople who offered ritual services thus managed to operate in the interstices of the Tokugawa hierarchy of religious organizations. By Jikigyō’s time, in any case, a wide variety of prayer agents and mendicants were in circulation, often in affiliation or semiaffiliation with temples or shrines.38 Mountain ascetics, shrine priests, pilgrimage guides, mendicant monks,

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diviners, and several other kinds of religious professionals effectively made their living by mounting ritual events and distributing talismanic items to networks of regular patrons as well as more occasional clients. These groups inevitably vied with each other for clientele. Over the course of the Tokugawa period, as noted earlier, mountain ascetics in particular became more and more involved in offering apotropaic and healing services to local populations, and not infrequently they found themselves in competition with temple monks, shrine priests, and other ritual practitioners. Arimoto Masao cites several reports of unauthorized individuals carrying out Shugendō-style prayer rituals in rural eastern Japan during the first half of the Edo period. In one late seventeenth-century case a group of yamabushi in Sagami complained to the shogunate that their designated role of performing annual rites was being usurped by practitioners sponsored by local Buddhist temples.39 In another case, in Musashi in the 1660s, mountain ascetics challenged local shrine priests’ rights to carry out purification rituals, arguing that these practices were in fact kitō and therefore outside the priests’ prerogatives. To underscore their point the yamabushi forced their way into a shrine ceremony and disrupted it, breaking up and throwing away the consecrated sakaki branches used in the ritual.40 Mountain ascetics contended intensely not only with clergy, however, but also with unaffiliated hōja (religious practitioners) who, under various guises distributed talismans, offered up prayer requests, conducted moon and sun vigils, and in effect professed more or less the same repertoire as that claimed by putative professionals.41 The early Tokugawa advocates of Kakugyō’s version of Fuji devotionalism belonged to this freelance category. They were not initially affected by the shogunal restriction of itinerant mendicants; the authorities regulated the activities of shrine and temple priests, mountain ascetics, oshi, and other specified ritual professionals, but Kakugyō’s followers did not clearly belong to any of these groups.42 Judging from the little information available, it seems that for much of the seventeenth century the founder’s successors presented themselves mostly as informal mountain practitioners, experienced pilgrims, or part-time religious itinerants. It will be recalled, for example, that Jikigyō’s teacher, Getsugyō Sōjū, was identified in the Unspoken Word as a Fuji gannin or “Fuji supplicant,” and described as a dedicated mountain devotee who had completed more than eighty pilgrimages to the peak in addition to multiple ascetic regimens.43 In the Edo period “gannin” (literally, prayer person) generally indicated a wandering mendicant, religious practitioner, or performer who conducted proxy rituals, pilgrimages, or other services and displays of skill upon request; the term encompassed a wide range of overlapping meanings.44 The thrust of the usage in the Unspoken Word is that in his capacity as a gannin (in

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his case unaffiliated with any sectarian body) Getsugyō practiced a regular ascetic lifestyle, possibly supported by patrons in exchange for the ritual activities or prayer pledges that he carried out on their behalf.45 The first few generations of Kakugyō’s followers were thus not recognized (or even acknowledged) by the Tokugawa authorities as an organized group and were therefore in no position to assert public claims to any ritual domain. It is telling in this regard that decades before Jikigyō began to denounce the custom of prayer rituals, Kakugyō’s fourth-generation successor, Getsugan, asserted in an official statement to the Edo authorities that he and his fellow practitioners did not accept “even one coin” in compensation for the protective amulets and talismans that they dispensed.46 He repeatedly defended the distribution of these items on the grounds of compassion. “We make sure to give talismans to people who have mortal illnesses. . . . The talismans and amulets that we have been using are for the good of people. . . . We offer them to the poor out of compassion.”47 The implication seems to be that not charging fees for talismans and related ritual services, which were evidently an important part of the Fuji religious program in Getsugan’s time, was a defining element of the group’s religious identity and message. It is possible that Getsugan made these statements in anticipation of complaints from established religious professionals that the Fuji practitioners were encroaching on their ritual-economic territory. If unregistered individuals or groups openly charged fees for healing, prognostication, purification, or other services, they were more likely to attract the unwanted attention of the government, especially if authorized local practitioners of the ritual in question interpreted the activity as a threat to their own livelihood and lobbied the authorities to take action against the interlopers.48 Conflict among religious agents or groups over rights to revenue sources was often cast in Tokugawa discourse in terms of propriety and social obligation rather than naked economic interests, the articulation of which may have been politically risky or perceived as unseemly. Claims to nonprofessional status as demonstrated by a policy of refusing fees could thus amount to a rhetoric that privileged the moral integrity of presumably disinterested amateurs over that of professionals who charged for their services, even as it camouflaged incursions by the former into the latter’s income base. Given the growth in alms solicitation and related ritual activities in early modern Japan, which led especially in the second half of the period to open contention between competing guilds of ritualists and/or between established and unlicensed operators, we cannot overlook the possibility that income and territory were at stake in Jikigyō’s denunciations of kaji kitō in the early eighteenth century as well, even though here, too, the rationale was expressed in moral and religious terms.49 However, while in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth

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centuries disputes over ritual services were almost transparently related to economic competition between established and new religious groups, the import of earlier discourse, like that of Getsugan or Jikigyō, about the propriety of accepting payment for talismans or related services is more ambiguous. Refusal to accept compensation was not necessarily motivated only by a concern for selfpreservation in the face of political maneuvering by rival guilds whose members argued that their livelihood was threatened.50 Rather, the moral argument itself, with its prioritizing of personal enactment, sincerity, and compassion over a transactional model of ritual practice, was presented as a critical component of the nonestablished groups’ raison d’être, which hinged on the successful advocacy of a reformist message.

Jikigyō Miroku’s Polemic The repeated condemnation of ritual fees and alms in Jikigyō’s writings and in his disciples’ record of his last sermons was propelled by his conviction that commissioned prayer for benefits (kage negai) perpetuated a distorted relationship between human beings and the god of Mount Fuji. At the same time, as we have seen, the Fuji leader believed that paying others to intercede with spiritual powers was economically wasteful. This view was undergirded by the same conservationist logic that he applied to the use of material resources in general. “The essence of sustaining life is refraining from profitless, desire-driven eating and thereby making one’s provisions last longer; it is distributing one’s surplus to poor people and teaching the path of offering relief to even a single person.” Jikigyō correlated the associated virtues (self-restraint, compassion, charity) with rice, “the life-giving essence,” which he pointedly called the bodhisattva of relief (tasuke no bosatsu).” In other words, the Fuji ascetic identified compassion and social assistance with food, the very substance of life, and ultimately with the great mountain that produced it: “the body of rice, the body of Fuji, the principle of oneness.”51 His reasoning was profoundly ecological in the sense of a concern for the equilibrium and harmonious operation of the cosmic whole: if one restricts how much one consumes (whether food or other resources) a surplus will result elsewhere or at another time. “The essence of how to make [life] better for others is to make do with less, oneself” (ware wa fusoku suru).52 Jikigyō used the term “ fusoku” (literally, insufficiency) as shorthand for this philosophy of self-restraint, with compassion for others (jihi) as its positive correlate.53 A life of fusoku meant that “based on helpfulness and kindness, one first of all assists those close at hand, while striving diligently to restrain one’s own needs in everything.”54

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The ethics of fusoku was a new contribution to the teachings that are adumbrated in the fragmentary writings and image-texts left behind by Kakugyō Tōbutsu and his seventeenth-century followers. The idea of depriving oneself in order to help others and thereby restore well-being to the world as a whole was not particularly distinctive at the time. It surfaces conspicuously, for example, in the recorded conversations of Jikigyō’s contemporary, Ishida Baigan. The Kyoto shop clerk made clear that by “thrift” (ken’yaku) he did not mean economizing for selfish reasons but rather “trying to make do with two things instead of three, for the sake of the world.”55 He famously committed himself to eating only two meals a day from his youth, in the hope that the food he gave up might help some one in need.56 The Shingaku teacher’s rationale for this self-denial, like Jikigyō Miroku’s, went beyond the more narrowly economic logic of the merchant house codes and sumptuary edicts of the time.57 Both teachers understood frugality and self-restraint as ethical imperatives with decisive implications for the collective well-being.58 Jikigyō’s version of personal economy was distinguished rather by the soteriology in which it was embedded. According to his view, in the cosmic ecosystem generated by the True Father and Mother, in which enhancements or diminutions in one area reverberated in another across time and space, the proper approach to moral and religious life would help establish equilibrium in human society and indeed the entire universe. According to the providence that Sengen had purportedly revealed to Jikigyō and his teacher Getsugyō in 1688, during the Age of the Gods people had wrongly depended on various minor deities for help with their everyday problems because their spiritual life was out of kilter. Instead of developing authenticity in their devotions and controlling their external conduct, they had projected their self-centered desires onto artificial, “constructed” gods. In an almost prophetic tone Jikigyō fulminates in both the Unspoken Word and the Addendum that people’s prayers had long since become requests for favors (kage negai) mistakenly directed to “wooden buddhas, metal buddhas, and stone buddhas.” People had petitioned these images in the wrongheaded belief that their wishes would thereby be delivered to Amida Buddha.59 The Fuji ascetic held clergy and other ritual agents responsible for exploiting ordinary people through their promotion of this kind of secondhand prayer. In his writings he directs his criticism especially at practitioners who offered rituals for a fee in association with sectarian institutions. Jikigyō repeatedly singles out Buddhist monks, nuns, yamabushi, and shrine priests for misleading people into thinking that they needed to commission prayer services in order to gain benefits or to avoid misfortune.60 Indeed, his remarks about these errant ritualists often veer into a more pointed assessment of the role of religious professionals (as

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well as their patrons) in the Tokugawa economy as a whole. The undisciplined approach to prayer that these agents encouraged, in his view, was an obstacle to the union of the people with the Father and Mother, and thus, to full realization of the new world. Furthermore, in his view the widespread custom of employing ritual intermediaries was contributing to the degeneration of religious and moral life in Japan in general. Even in the relatively politic Thirty-One Days (which as noted was probably edited with an eye to wider circulation than Jikigyō’s other works) the Fuji reformer is depicted as unwavering in his insistence that the Buddhist orders were in moral decline precisely because their temples were subsidized by the donations and fees that the clergy demanded for ritual services and restoration projects.61 “They beautify their clothing to the extreme, eat fish and meat, commit sexual transgressions, and fall into profound sin—what is the reason for this? It is that they are satiated with contributions and donations.”62 The condemnation of prayer rituals and alms solicitation was usually directed at priests and kitōsha (prayer agents) in general, but Jikigyō also targeted members of his own religious community. His writings indicate that he believed Kakugyō’s followers’ involvement in ritual activity had contributed to the delay of the Age of Miroku. The divisions that took place in the Fuji religious community in the generation preceding Jikigyō’s rise to leadership may bear some relevance to his evolving stance in this regard. Kakugyō’s third-generation successor, Ganshin (Shōzaemon, d. 1671), is the last leader to whom all later branches of the Fuji religion trace their lineage. In Jikigyō’s line, which later came to dominate the movement as a whole, the consensus is that Getsugyō, his teacher, was Ganshin’s direct successor, and therefore the fourth-generation leader of the group, with Jikigyō Miroku then becoming Kakugyō’s fifth-generation successor.63 According to another view, however, it was Getsugan who inherited the succession from Ganshin and later transmitted it to Gesshin (Murakami Shichizaemon, 1639–1708), whose son Murakami Kōsei became the head of the so-called Murakami branch of Fujikō.64 Iwashina Koichirō emphasizes that the split among Ganshin’s followers in the late seventeenth century was not necessarily caused by any overt conflict, and that the Murakami Kōsei and Jikigyō Miroku lines of Fuji practitioners coexisted without tension for some time.65 In addition, however, at some point in the early eighteenth century, if not earlier, Jikigyō Miroku distanced himself from his teacher Getsugyō’s other followers. Iwashina cites an untitled piece in which Jikigyō excoriates Getsugyō’s son, Mori Sōbei, as well as an individual called Sakubei, Getsugyō’s putative lineal successor.66 Jikigyō accuses these and other “oshi” of deceiving Sengen, of relying on “hungry ghosts and animals” (presumably meaning that they played to people’s base, selfish instincts), and of duping

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people into thinking that deities granted rewards and punishments based on whether individuals dedicated prayer rituals to them. In essence, Jikigyō charged his companions in the Fuji religious community with defrauding people in order to gain income.67 Here again we note an abiding concern with the implications of receiving compensation for religious rituals. If we are to trust this account, despite statements to the contrary some Fuji practitioners who were active in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries took payment for their services.68 Jikigyō’s reference to these seeming miscreants as oshi or pilgrimage agents is also revealing in this regard. Whereas Kakugyō and his first few followers were on the move much of the time, later in the seventeenth century Fuji practice cells had begun stabilizing in certain rural locations (such as the Shimotsuke example discussed earlier), as well as in Edo. Their members frequently interacted with the Kitaguchi Sengen Shrine staff and regularly patronized the associated Yoshida oshi.69 In the Tokugawa period oshi did not officially belong to the main status groups of religious professionals, namely Buddhist priests, shrine priests, denominational mountain ascetics, and yin-yang specialists (onmyōji). They worked for shrines at pilgrimage sites, but their social identity and religious qualifications were ambiguous and tended to vary by location—Takano Toshihiko characterizes oshi as somewhere “between peasants and shrine priests.”70 Nonetheless, as a rule they were fully engaged in (and arguably controlled) the economy of numerous pilgrimage establishments in early modern Japan.71 Jikigyō’s reference to his peers in the Fuji group as oshi indicates that by his time some latter-day followers of Kakugyō had been authorized by the Kitaguchi Shrine to perform the usual oshi repertoire—in other words, to coordinate travel and accommodations for pilgrims, to visit patron households and distribute talismans, and to collect the fees associated with these and other pilgrim-related activities.72 Jikigyō’s unhappiness with kinen kitō (as he calls commissioned prayer activities) was both a critique of the commercialization of these rituals in general and a call to Fuji devotees in particular to elevate their own religious and moral standards so that they could advance the Age of Miroku. In his last sermon, purportedly delivered as he was about to expire, he repeatedly expressed his wish that followers abandon their self-centered prayer activities. According to Tanabe Jūrōemon’s account, Jikigyō complained of individuals who were “oblivious of their obligation [to Sengen], selfishly made excuses, and competed with each other in [mounting] prayer rituals.” In his view these practitioners were failing to seek for the “essential foundation” (sono moto) or to “discover anything on their own”; they were “engrossed in the writings of intellectuals” and indiscriminately carried out “prayers and worship rituals for everyone.”73 He denounced

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especially the one-upmanship of donors and patrons who, complicit with the temples and shrines, flaunted their resources by funding extravagant offerings and ceremonies instead of tending to the truly needy.74 The Fuji leader believed that commissioning prayers, fundraising for temple restoration, and giving alms to priests amounted to self-indulgence on the part of the giver, not only the recipient; both parties were responsible for this wrong-headed transactional behavior. He did not preclude almsgiving in moderation, but in his view the ideal was to provide concrete relief to people who were genuinely in need; as he put it, “if you give a day’s food to a poor person, you save a life for one day.”75

The Affirmation of Healing Postwar Japanese historians drew a sharp contrast between Jikigyō’s alleged rationalist-ethical stance and the “magical” or kaji kitō orientation of other Fuji practitioners, as we saw in the introduction. More recently, Miyazaki Fumiko has concluded based on a careful analysis of Jikigyō’s writings that he fundamentally rejected the style of Fuji religion that preceded him,76 and it must be said that evidence for this view is abundant, given the apparent preponderance of talismanic and prayer ritual activity among other members of the Fuji group during the seventeenth century. Jikigyō’s critique of commercialized prayer and almsgiving was not, however, inspired by the repudiation of a worldview in which human beings depend on or feel controlled by a divine power or spiritual force. The comparison with Ishida Baigan is again instructive: the merchant scholar is said to have been fervent in his reverence for the native kami, but when it came to the putative healing power of the “spirits and gods,” he maintained a time-honored Confucian stance. Asked whether a person’s illness had been cured because the petitioner’s prayer to the gods was sincere, or because the “shrine priests and Buddhist monks” had been paid to offer kitō on behalf of the patient, Baigan flatly asserted that paying for prayer was wrong, even sinful (tsumi)—although he conceded that the error stemmed simply from stupidity. He assured his questioner that gods did not have the power to save a person’s life and that asking for their help was consequently futile: “One cannot extend life by means of prayer.”77 Jikigyō Miroku’s polemic against superfluous ritual activity was not premised on this profoundly human-centered view of the workings of the universe. On the contrary, it was based on the Fuji ascetic’s belief that human beings were part of a cosmos generated by a great parental deity on whom they could fully rely for benefits, given sincere devotion and prayer. Thus, even though Jikigyō denounced established kitō practices, he not only tolerated but encouraged the

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use of ritual prayer as well as healing practices among his own followers. As we saw in the preceding chapter, the Fuji reformer advocated the recital of prayer formulae that were addressed to Sengen and grounded in wholehearted faith. The sincere expression of one’s “heartfelt desire” (shingan) was the defining quality of these direct requests (jiki negai) to the god of Mount Fuji, as opposed to the requests for benefits (kage negai) that ritual professionals submitted to other buddhas and kami on one’s behalf. Moreover, Jikigyō’s writings and his ominuki, like those of other leading Fuji practitioners, include the main ritual formulae contained in the image-texts of the founder, Kakugyō, and duly recommend their recitation.78 In addition, if we are to trust Tanabe Jūrōemon’s narrative in the Thirty-One Days, one of Jikigyō’s last instructions to his disciple at Eboshi Rock was to “convey in due course the blessing of this talisman-water [fusui no kaji] to the Fuji kō faithful.”79 This parting counsel evidently referred to the practice in the Fuji group, well documented later in the Edo period, of dissolving pieces of talismanic writings in water and drinking the mixture for protective or curative purposes.80 It is unclear whether the mention of talismanic water in the received text originated with Jikigyō or with his scribes, but it is likely that some sort of Fuji healing water was in use among members of his religious lineage during the early eighteenth century. We saw in the preceding chapter that water, emblematic of life and fertility, played an important role in the group’s discourse of creation and reproduction. In addition to characterizing human embryos as droplets of water, Jikigyō reportedly depicted the human body in general as a kind of repository of “the power inherent in water”—people absorbed the life power of water by imbibing it regularly and then transferring it internally to the rice that they had ingested. The Thirty-One Days explains the special quality of water, including Fuji healing water, in some detail: When ordinary people fall into a daze and lose their color, one hurriedly pours water on their faces, blows into their throats, and revives their breathing. This is the virtue of water, is it not? If one hesitates to use the water granted [by Sengen] in the belief that it is poisonous, it is because one does not know Sengen’s compassion. Even if one possesses the true bodhisattva [rice], if one doesn’t use water to soften it, it cannot be properly digested and absorbed. If the body runs out of water and the blood dries up, one’s life [cannot] be saved. The reason is that the foundation for saving life derives from water. The revelation that it has this power, that it is medicinal water and can even transform people, is an incomparable boon.81

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Here we have a well-articulated rationale for the practice in the Fuji community of using water, especially water associated with the great mountain (likely collected from its lakes, streams, or cave drippings) for therapeutic purposes. In the view of Jikigyō’s close disciples, if not of the ascetic himself, the parental Mount Fuji had blessed human beings with special, transformative waters that could serve a number of health care purposes, ranging from ensuring good digestion to emergency resuscitation. The insinuation in the above remarks that some regarded Fuji water as toxic suggests that its use for healing may have already provoked criticism in Edo during Jikigyō’s lifetime or soon thereafter. Separate sources confirm that some sort of “medicinal water” identified with the mountain was indeed being distributed in Edo within several years of the ascetic’s death, adding plausibility to the view that he had approved and even promoted its use during his lifetime. A memorandum issued by city headmen in 1742 warned residents against “Fuji” healing practices, which had evidently become quite popular by this time. “Recently certain persons in the city have been giving water to the ill on a daily basis, calling it ‘Fuji blessing water’ [Fuji kaji mizu]. If people are taking stomach medicine they are made to stop and take only the blessing water—they are given nothing but the water, day after day. It is rumored that if their illness is cured, they are urged to become disciples of the Fuji school. However, those who recover are few, while those who are injured are many.”82 A few days later a more peremptory version of the same notice, signed by three senior Edo headmen, ordered that the practice be stopped immediately and that any violations of the edict be investigated and reported without fail.83 We cannot be certain that Jikigyō’s lineal disciples in particular were the target of these measures, but the reference to an organized group (“the Fuji school”) strongly suggests that some sort of sodality associated with the mountain was intended. In any case, judging as well from Jikigyō’s cited remarks in the Thirty-One Days, the idea that he and his followers should be distinguished from others in the movement who were irretrievably mired in kaji kitō or a “Shugendō-type magical mentality,” as later interpreters would have it, is less than persuasive. Although they were unlikely to have been involved in the more ostentatious types of ceremonies that yamabushi were licensed to perform, there is little doubt that Fuji practitioner-leaders of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries relied on talismanic aids and prayer rituals to activate the power of the Fuji deity in response to people’s requests for help with their problems, as Getsugan had indeed testified when questioned by the authorities in the early 1680s. Jikigyō himself reportedly kept an ominuki-style protective talisman on his person throughout his life. 84 The issue

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for the Fuji leader was not the validity of praying for tangible benefits, or of using talismanic slips, special formulae, and healing water, but rather the failure of petitioners to ground these practices in direct, personal devotion to Sengen Daibosatsu, and to refrain from extraneous rituals and offerings directed at imagined other powers. The function and status of commissioned prayer rituals in the Fuji religious community during the second half of the Tokugawa period is beyond the scope of this study, but it is worth mention here that the associated socioeconomic issues did not diminish and indeed grew in intensity as the movement spread. Jikigyō’s campaign to eliminate these fee-based services ultimately had little impact on practices identified with Fujikō, much less on Tokugawa religious practices as a whole. Individuals who carried out rituals identified with the great mountain began to attract notice on the streets of Edo soon after the ascetic passed away, as mentioned above. Judging from the authorities’ repeated injunctions against these activities from the late eighteenth century on, the public interest in rituals dedicated to the mountain god, along with Fuji-styled amulets and Fuji healing water, steadily expanded in the city and its environs in tandem with the vogue for climbing the mountain. The 1742 edict against the use of “Fuji blessing water” was followed by another ordinance in 1775 in which the Edo city magistrate complained about artisans and small-scale merchants carrying out healing and solicitation practices under the guise of authorized mountain ascetics.85 The content of the edict was later reiterated with specific reference to “persons who have recently been promoting Fujikō,” and “who profess to make offerings [to the mountain deity], and who wear the garb of ascetics despite their lay status, carrying bells and multifarious [Buddhist] prayer beads. They stand in doorways, house after house, and recite liturgies [saimon] or else display talismans and amulets.”86 On the face of it Jikigyō’s followers were opposed precisely to these kinds of services and solicitation practices, but by the late eighteenth century it was mainly the branch led by his youngest daughter, Ichigyō Hana (1724–1789), and her designated successor, Sangyō Rokuō (1745–1809), that seems to have held the line in this regard. Ichigyō’s stated position on this issue nonetheless took more realistic account of the group’s precarious political status than had been necessary during her father’s lifetime, when the Fuji kō were not yet distinctly organized. In the late eighteenth century unidentified wandering ritualists were apparently asserting claims to the mountain’s power, in some cases even administering some sort of “Mount Fuji” medicinal potion to the ill. Regardless of whether Jikigyō’s direct followers were involved in these activities, by association they were vulnerable to government action. In a letter dated Tenmei 4 (1784),

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Ichigyō (who was sixty-one years old at the time), addressed the members of her father’s lineage as follows: To our companions in the direct line of transmission from Jikigyō: Jikigyō Miroku kū conveyed to us the essence of the tradition of Fuji faith; the companions on the path should therefore believe in it without harboring any misunderstanding. In recent times, numerous persons have appeared who claim to be companions in the Miroku tradition of the Fuji faith and who have been performing prayer rituals [kaji kitō] and soliciting alms. This is a serious error. . . . You should strive with all your heart not to adopt the attitude of the Fuji prayer ritualists [gannin] who have become popular in recent years, and to preserve the true way.87 Evidently by this time certain individuals were trying to make a living by carrying out prayer rituals and alms rounds in the name of the Jikigyō Miroku line of Fujikō. They lacked the qualification to do so, Ichigyō asserts in her letter, because their activities were not founded on her father’s teaching of moral integrity and commitment to the True Father and Mother.88 Ichigyō Hana’s wording further suggests that followers in her father’s branch of the Fuji movement had themselves been tempted, perhaps for economic reasons, to try their hand at performing kaji kitō and soliciting alms. According to Okada Hiroshi, Ichigyō’s letter was aimed at the followers of Jikigyō’s immediate disciple, Tanabe Jurōemon, who had acquired the status of a Yoshida oshi soon after his teacher’s death. These members were allegedly popularizing their version of the Fuji faith by encouraging practices such as takiage (fire rituals ordinarily performed by yamabushi or priests).89 Ichigyō accordingly inveighs in her missive against using the semblance of the Fuji religious tradition as an opportunity to claim access to spiritual power, even if that approach promised to attract followers. She also underlines the personal and ethical thrust of her father’s message. “Faith depends on each individual person: you should avoid entering into upāya-type thinking.90 In our faith there are no bizarre or mysterious matters; as long as one grounds oneself in sincerity and keeps one’s mind upright [roku] one will become an embodiment of Miroku.”91 In a telling aside Ichigyō also makes clear, however, that her branch of Fujikō affirmed the validity of healing by means of talismanic water—a practice that her father himself had reportedly recommended. As I have stressed, Jikigyō’s promotion of moral life had been coupled with disapproval not of healing and apotropaic rituals per se but of hiring ritual itinerants or clergy to carry out these activities by proxy. In the context of health care broadly conceived, rituals centered on

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talismanic objects and enunciation of transformative formulae were communal religious activities, fully encouraged within the parameters of the group. Nevertheless, in her own time Ichigyō felt the need to emphasize the restriction of these kinds of therapies to committed followers. “In case of illness, you should add water to the character san of our revered tradition and drink it. This [practice], too, is only for family members and companions on the path. The reason [for this restriction] is in order to make do with less [fusoku], and also because it would bother prayer ritualists [kinen kitōsha] and physicians, which would not be good.”92 Ichigyō was apparently apprehensive that her followers’ healing practices would provoke conflict with professionals who were licensed to administer ritual and/or medical services (yamabushi, Buddhist priests, and physicians, among others). Her fears were well founded. For the most part Fuji practitioners lacked any official status as ritual experts, and the Edo authorities had already censured individuals whom they identified as Fuji kō members at least twice for these kinds of activities, possibly because competing ritual or medical practitioners had lodged complaints against them.93 Judging from the descriptions in the aforementioned edicts, the services performed by the yamabushi look-alikes who claimed to represent the Fuji faith differed considerably in style from the relatively simple healing procedures portrayed in writings that circulated among Jikigyō’s followers (the creation of talismanic water and its ingestion). However, as Ichigyō implies, unauthorized Fuji healing might nonetheless be perceived as encroaching on the domain of registered professionals. These kinds of practices shared certain external similarities, featuring in each case a ritualized appeal to a powerful spiritual being to fend off or eliminate noxious influences, and often involving recitation of verbal formulae centered on (or supplemented by) one or more talismanic items. As religious interest in Mount Fuji grew in Japan in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, claims to ritual prerogatives associated with the mountain also burgeoned, provoking in some cases further unwanted attention from the authorities. In Kansei 7 (1795), twelve years after Ichigyō Hana cautioned kō members about illicit prayer services and solicitation practices, the Edo authorities complained in even sharper terms about activities that had come to be associated with “Fujikō,” including the distribution of talismans and the enactment of prayer rituals (kaji kitō). This particular edict was issued in the context of the so-called Kansei reforms, a set of shogunal policies that sought, among other aims, to tighten social controls in Edo in response to the growing influx into the city of unidentified or homeless people from the countryside. “Fuji” religious practitioners were grouped in this and other official notices with a variety of other unregistered ritualists who were alleged to have violated government strictures.94

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The edict states that clusters of lay “workers, day laborers, and small-scale merchants” were “wearing Shugen[dō] surplices, brandishing priestly crosiers, and chanting continuously” as they proceeded in great numbers from house to house in Edo begging for donations, in some cases arguing aggressively with reluctant homeowners and shopkeepers. The practitioners were also allegedly mounting ritual fires and carrying large bonten (ritual wands)—in short, they were “barely distinguishable from yamabushi.”95 Needless to say, the characterization of Fujikō practitioners as false yamabushi in these ordinances is not reliable evidence of the actual activities of the movement’s members, much less of Jikigyō Miroku’s lineal followers.96 But judging from the series of edicts and official warnings against Fujikō that persisted well into the mid-nineteenth century, Mount Fuji–identified ritual activity of this kind continued unabated in the streets of Edo.97 In light of Jikigyō’s passionate condemnation of prayer rituals it is ironic that it was precisely these fee-based practices that later flagged the group to the government as worthy of suppression. For the Fuji reformer, as we have seen, paying for religious services and contributing to temple and shrine funds in quest of health and well-being was in the first place an individual moral issue—a form of self-centered action that ignored oneness with Sengen. Ultimately, however, engagement in indiscriminate ritual activity was also a larger social problem insofar as it wasted material resources and contributed to a distorted political economy. Indeed, when taken to its logical conclusions Jikigyō’s insistence on direct prayer to Mount Fuji and the elimination of unnecessary religious protocols and their associated expenditures was a call for withdrawal from the control system put in place by the shogunate in the seventeenth century; the Tokugawa rulers routinely required residents to support their local temples financially and authorized select groups of ritual professionals to collect fees for their services. Jikigyō Miroku’s condemnation of prayer rituals and alms collection in this sense implied dissent from the existing socioeconomic system. In contrast to most other merchant writers of his time, whose advocacy of thrift carried little suggestion of opposition to the existing order, the Fuji ascetic’s recurrent argument in his writings was that denying oneself in order to assist others was eminently more valuable than making donations to the Tokugawa temple-shrine establishment. Furthermore, Jikigyō held the emperor and shogun themselves to these same standards of compassion and self-restraint. If the authorities were to help even a single person, he proclaimed, it would please the god of Mount Fuji more than “collecting funds from the sixty-six provinces of Japan, building Buddhist temples, and having one thousand or ten thousand sūtras read out.”98 This type of hortatory discourse anticipated the explicit political stance that Jikigyō Miroku adopted in the last year of his life, both in writing and in his ascetic activism.

C HA P T E R F I V E

Jikigyō Miroku’s Final Austerity

Jikigyō’s critique of prayer rituals and alms practices was one facet of the larger sociopolitical stance that he articulated more clearly in his late writings, in which he directly chastises the rulers of his time. His rebuke of the government did not have any precedent among the earlier followers of Kakugyō Tōbutsu, as far as we know. Yet the ascetic’s political posture in the last several months before he died was nourished by a sense of mission vis-à-vis the Tokugawa rulers that was apparently growing in some quarters of the Fuji religious community. In the following pages I review the scattered information we have about how the first few generations of Kakugyō’s followers pictured themselves in relation to the Tokugawa state, and suggest that by the late seventeenth century some of these devotees felt they had been divinely appointed to advise the government about the Age of Miroku. The second part of the chapter analyzes the socioeconomic circumstances in which Jikigyō formulated his own political views in the early 1730s, as well as the logic and style of his suicide on Mount Fuji. I argue that his voluntary death was a call for tangible reform in the Tokugawa world as well as a powerful act of renunciation intended to accelerate the fulfillment of the new world.

A Sense of Political Responsibility The Tokugawa authorities were probably not cognizant of Kakugyō’s followers before the late seventeenth century, but it is clear from later group narratives that for their part Fujikō members came to understand their religious ideology to be politically meaningful from its origins. It will be recalled that the founder’s hagiography was probably compiled in the late eighteenth or the nineteenth century—in part, conceivably, from earlier materials. The authors of The Book of Great Practice describe an almost intimate master-disciple relationship between the Fujikō founding figure and the first Tokugawa shogun, Ieyasu.1 We do not know exactly when or how the story of the two men’s encounter in Hitoana originated, but at some point the idea that the celebrated Tokugawa founder had sought Kakugyō’s counsel infused his later followers with a sense of their own 135

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advisory responsibility toward the government. Perhaps more reliably, the compilers of the Book tell us that in 1620 the shogunal authorities called Kakugyō and his two senior disciples to account for their healing activities. It is not implausible that this episode in the narrative is based on an actual incident of the kind, although, as Tyler suggests, the dating of the event to 1620 should be regarded with suspicion.2 The alleged incident conforms to a pattern throughout the history of the group in which Fuji practitioners were periodically interrogated, censured, or proscribed when their talismanic and healing activities were perceived to be getting out of hand in Edo and the environs. Moreover, the late Tokugawa authors of the Book were undoubtedly aware that unauthorized healing practices were an increasingly delicate issue in their own time. Tellingly, they take care to point out that Kakugyō and his two senior disciples defended themselves against the charges brought against them by citing the founder’s putative connection with Ieyasu. The text reads: The news [of our healing activities in Edo] reached the authorities. The Shogun was then Daitokuin-dono Lord Hidetada, who issued an order through the Council of Elders as follows: “Certain strange ascetics [fushigi no gyōja] who have just appeared in the city seem to be healing the incurably ill by means of a written spell. This is very curious. You will take steps to examine them.” The two city magistrates, Shimada Jihei and Yonezu Kanbei, then summoned us and took us to an assembly of the Elders under Lord Andō Tsushima-no-kami. . . . Thus the investigation was pursued, until at last we three thought of mentioning the Divine Lord’s (Tokugawa Ieyasu’s) own visits to the Hitoana. The investigators then decided that the matter was clear and that we were wholly innocent. They informed the Shogun about the Divine Lord’s visits to the Hitoana and the Shogun accepted their recommendation. Accordingly, we three were released and our master returned to Hitoana.3 The story of Ieyasu’s visits to Hitoana to consult with Kakugyō evidently came to serve as a point of reference for later Fujikō members’ self-identified role as unofficial advisors to the government.4 However, it was the group’s healing activities and distribution of talismanic materials that framed its actual relationship with the Tokugawa authorities. I noted earlier that Kakugyō’s professed fourth-generation successor, Getsugan, and his disciple, Gesshin, aroused the suspicions of domain and shogunal officials in the late seventeenth century. In his account of this event Getsugan states that three retainers of Soga Iga, the

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daimyo of Ashikaga in Shimotsuke, visited Getsugan’s home in early 1684 in order to ascertain whether the Fuji leader had given an “alien-looking text” to an Ashikaga samurai named Sansuke. Two days later the magistrates in charge of heterodox religious affairs (the so-called Kirishitan bugyō) summoned Getsugan for interrogation.5 During this time measures for controlling unauthorized religious activities, aimed especially at Christians, were being actively enforced by the shogunate in accordance with the policies it had established earlier in the period; several peasants in the Shimotsuke area had already been charged with being “Kirishitan” converts.6 Sansuke’s scrolls, as mentioned in chapter 2, were ominuki attributed to Kakugyō, replete with the unreadable characters and mysterious symbols of the genre. The odd appearance of the writing on these scrolls apparently suggested to the authorities that they might be underground Christian materials. During Getsugan’s interrogation he reminded the officials of his orthodox religious credentials in several ways. He affirmed the Buddhist identity of his household; its members had lawfully registered for generations in their ancestral Pure Land Buddhist temple in Fukagawa (thereby ostensibly precluding any Christian affiliation). He recited the death dates and interment locations of the three Fuji leaders who preceded him (Kakugyō, Nichigan, and Ganshin), carefully referring to the last two by their posthumous Buddhist names and specifying the Buddhist temples with which each were affiliated, in death as in life, again as required by law. Notably also, Getsugan assured the magistrates that Mount Fuji pilgrims under his supervision were instructed not only to appeal to Sengen on behalf of their parents and their masters but also to chant the nenbutsu and the daimoku during their climbs, just as would members of mainstream Buddhist communities.7 Indeed, the pilgrims were expected to recite “peace in the empire—security and serenity in our land—long life in the world,”8 and to pray that everyone in the group and in their families would attain enlightenment in the next life. No mention is made of followers chanting the ominuki syllable strings, even though these formulae were likely being intoned in the group’s worship rituals at the time. Getsugan evidently persuaded the officers that his and his followers’ religious activities were minor variations of accepted practices of the time. The magistrates reportedly concluded that the suspect scrolls were not in fact Christian in inspiration; Getsugan, Gesshin, and Sansuke were released and the investigation was brought to a close the same day.9 Judging from this account the shogunal authorities did not consider the occasional talismanic and devotional activities carried out by these laymen in rural eastern Japan to be problematic. In this early phase of the movement the government’s attention was drawn in the first place

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not by reports that the Fuji adepts were distributing healing talismans and amulets, or that they were stirring up large crowds. It was the visible infringement of ideographic conventions that initially raised a red flag, suggesting a foreign influence and thus potential subversion. At stake for the shogunate at this juncture were not the specific practices associated with this new form of devotion to Mount Fuji so much as the possibility that alien social groupings were operating outside its control system. While the Tokugawa authorities strictly suppressed Kirishitan, exclusivist Nichiren Buddhist (fuju fuse), and hidden Pure Land Buddhist (kakure nenbutsu) groups, as mentioned earlier it allowed informal religious activities— whether local mountain devotions, orthodox lay Buddhist associations, or moral cultivation societies (such as Sekimon Shingaku)—to develop in relative freedom. Shimazono attributes this “realistic tolerance” to a number of factors, including the underdeveloped nature of the Tokugawa ideological system, the inclusive spirit of Mahayana Buddhism, and the pragmatic orientation of “samurai Confucianism.”10 I would add that some heterodox religious movements managed to subsist and even thrive for a time in the Tokugawa world simply because they appeared to be reduplicating widely accepted practices. In the case of Fujikō, it was only after it matured organizationally in the second half of the period that the shogunate evinced any concern about its scope and ambitions as a group, and began to issue injunctions against it. In the seventeenth century Kakugyō’s followers seemed for all practical purposes to be ordinary carriers of ritual expertise who periodically addressed the health and prosperity concerns of local populations. A number of villagers and townspeople looked to these loosely connected Fuji practitioners for guidance in the pilgrimage process and related practices (presumably in collaboration with the Yoshida oshi on the northern side of the mountain). We have seen that several of Kakugyō’s successors who had ties to Shimotsuke, for example, served in this way as “practice leaders” who occasionally accompanied the more committed residents of the area on visits to the great mountain.11 On a broader scale, however, the new Fuji practitioners catered to the growing demand in both rural and urban areas for apotropaic and healing services. The authorities tolerated this kind of activity as long as it appeared to be related to conventional agricultural and health care needs; wandering ritualists were generally not targeted unless they appeared to be stirring people up or influencing them in the direction of one of the known heterodoxies. Getsugan’s testimony (and perhaps some elements of the retroactive narrative in the Great Practice) nonetheless indicates that the first several generations of Fuji religious practitioners did tangle with the ruling authorities, arguably on

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more than one occasion, because of suspicions prompted by reports of talismanic practices and materials. Yet it was not until the Genroku era (1688–1704) that leading members of the group formulated a religious ideology that had distinctly political implications. In the Unspoken Word, as we saw in chapter 3, Jikigyō announced a providential timeline according to which a great furikawari or cosmic transformation had taken place in 1688. In his and his teacher Getsugyō’s view this event had momentous implications for the rulers of Japan. According to the text, Getsugyō waited expectantly during the first twelve years of the Genroku era for the imperial government to acknowledge the Age of Miroku and to direct enquiries to him in his capacity as the designated “officer” of the new epoch. However, the shogun and the court remained oblivious to the event of the furikawari, and after the prolonged lack of response Getsugyō (presumably accompanied by Jikigyō) decided to communicate Sengen’s message to Japan’s rulers in person. The Fuji ascetics arrived in Kyoto on the eighth day of the first month of Genroku 13 (1700), stopping for a time in the neighborhood of the Sanjō Bridge to prepare a written statement of Sengen’s message.12 The practitioners then proceeded to the residence of the imperial advisor (kanpaku) and submitted the text as a memorial to the emperor. They reportedly waited four days outside the advisor’s quarters for a response, but were ignored. Not faint of heart, Getsugyō returned to the imperial capital twice more in the following year to attempt to convey the news of the cosmic renewal to the authorities, again to no avail.13 Beginning in the late seventeenth century, then, by their own account these Fuji devotees attempted to communicate to the government as best they could, both in person and in writing, their pressing conviction that the members of the imperial household as well as the shogun should be personally involved in fostering the new world.14 In the Unspoken Word Jikigyō declares in no uncertain terms that Japan’s rulers were responsible to help people in concrete ways and that their governance should embody the very heart of Mount Fuji’s compassion.15 Indeed, the consequences of the authorities’ refusal to heed Getsugyō and Jikigyō’s communications had been cataclysmic. According to the text, the court’s failure to respond to the cosmic furikawari of 1688 had set off a series of natural disasters in Kyoto, including droughts, typhoons, an earthquake, and, perhaps most significantly, the eruption of Mount Fuji in 1707.16 But the critical importance of human conduct—including that of the rulers—did not stop there. Jikigyō asserts that the young crown prince who had been born in 1719 was destined to reveal, along with the Tokugawa shogun, the true meaning of the Age of Miroku and thereby illuminate the contents of all religious scriptures.17 In Jikigyō’s view the actions of the imperial family and the shogun were integral to the salvific equilibration of the world that Sengen had set in motion.

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Getsugyō, Jikigyō, and a number of later followers seem to have felt that if the government continued to evince no concern for the establishment of the new age, it was their own responsibility to elicit it.18 For Jikigyō Miroku in particular the negative effects of the Tokugawa rulers’ failure in this regard were palpable. His move to Edo in his teens to apprentice under a prosperous Ise merchant house had been, as mentioned earlier, part of the massive migration of rural workers to large cities in the early Edo period. Yet already in the late seventeenth century his natal Ise area was suffering economically because of a series of natural disasters, shogunal demands for draft labor, and poor fiscal management.19 The Tomiyama house, with which Jikigyō had likely been connected, lost its footing in Edo, and the deflationary policies associated with the Kyōhō reforms set it on an irrevocable road to decline.20 Indeed, by the early eighteenth century the city of Edo as a whole was financially stressed, and while living and working there Jikigyō accumulated plenty of grist for his critical assessment of the economy. The indebtedness of shogunal retainers in Edo, who tended to live beyond their means, had become a serious problem for the Tokugawa regime. The currency had been debased during the Genroku era in order to mitigate these pecuniary stresses—samurai who were paid in rice could obtain a higher cash price for it on the market—but their lifestyle expenses continued to accumulate.21 After Tokugawa Yoshimune (1684–1751) took power in 1716 he instituted measures that brought down the price of rice, but the net effect of this policy was to diminish the samurai’s buying power, which in turn strained the resources of the commoners who serviced them. Various attempts to address these and other fiscal problems in the 1720s, when Jikigyō was in his fifties, initially ameliorated the financial circumstances of shogunal and domain samurai, but before long other problems developed.22 When a series of good harvests later in the Kyōhō era (1716–1736) caused rice prices to drop further, the retainers and daimyo, who lived much of the year in Edo, lost even more purchasing power.23 The shogunate then intervened in the market once more, this time to raise the price of rice. Yoshimune’s finance ministry gave eight wholesalers, including a certain Takama Denbei (n.d.), exclusive rights to purchase rice directed to Edo from western Japan and enjoined them not to sell it at a low price. The dealers accordingly proceeded to buy up and store large quantities of this rice. In 1732, however, bad weather and insects ravaged the harvest in western Japan and a severe famine ensued, reportedly causing nearly a million deaths. Rice supplies in Edo had decreased so much by this time that despite shogunal measures to limit the outflow to other regions, prices skyrocketed. The ban on rice from other territories was eventually lifted, but it was too late to stem the effects of the price manipulation on the poorer residents of Edo. Street violence

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broke out, directed especially against large-scale merchants who were perceived to be benefiting from the price fluctuations. City administrators attempted to defuse the popular unrest by distributing relief supplies, but again it was too little, too late. In the first month of 1733 an angry mob of workers and day laborers swarmed toward Nihonbashi, and before long the Takama shop was trashed.24 It was the first time a protest involving property destruction (uchikowashi) took place in the shogunal capital. Jikigyō Miroku had already developed a critical view of the contemporary administration in the years preceding this event, but after famine and social unrest struck Edo it was manifestly clear to him that the auspicious world transformation he and Getsugyō had envisioned was failing to materialize. Two months after the Takama disturbance he took up his brush and began to articulate his political views in decisive terms. The resultant excursus, the Addendum (Osoegaki no maki), begins with an explanation of the Fuji religious teachings but evolves into an unambiguous denunciation of government policies and an impassioned declaration of the need for reform.25 Jikigyō charges the emperor and especially the shogun of reducing people to misery by hoarding wealth, debasing the value of currency, and, worst of all, raising the price of rice. He specifically accuses the previous shogun, Tsunayoshi (1646–1709), and the latter’s advisor, the senior councilor (rōjū) Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu (1658–1714), of having misbehaved with bijo (literally, beautiful women) and frittered away the country’s financial resources.26 Tsunayoshi’s prohibition against taking the life of animals especially incensed Jikigyō, because in his view it had caused ordinary working people grave economic hardship. In this text the Fuji leader further implies that nuns, priests, monks, and yamabushi had “bewitched” Tsunayoshi into adopting these eccentric policies and exhorts them to serve the people instead, by “entering the four classes” (shimin no uchi e hairi), as he puts it. He also calls for the authorities to remove onerous travel barriers and eliminate unwarranted monitoring and punishment of ordinary people. As far as the Fuji ascetic was concerned, all who were complicit in the cruel governance of recent times, including the emperor and shogun, were (or would soon be) sunk in hell in the next world.27 Jikigyō’s sense of outrage over the economic crisis intensified in the aftermath of the unprecedented disturbances in Edo. He refers directly in the Addendum to the rice riots and charges the “demon Takama” with making people suffer.28 He also repeatedly cites Onchi seiyō (Essentials of Well-Considered Government), a treatise by Tokugawa Muneharu (1696–1764) that was written soon after the latter became daimyo of Owari in late 1730.29 The work highlights axioms of good governance, such as “Compassion and mercy are the most

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important lessons,” “Do not impose one’s own preferences on others,” and “The benevolent have no enemies,” and in general emphasizes that rulers should nurture and support their people instead of imposing unnecessary laws and unfair penalties on them.30 Jikigyō’s remarks in the Addendum reveal his disappointment and anger that the current government, far from implementing these benevolent ideals, was exacerbating people’s economic distress: The rulers, oblivious of their duty, fabricate all sorts of things, using up money to pay emoluments here and there. By fabricating these various offices they deceive the people and deprive them of their money. They construct a model for how to take [the money], hiding it in walled-up storehouses as if it were emergency funds, while failing to make payments to the workers and merchants, and thus bringing harm to the people. Beginning with the emperor and the shogun, [the rulers] make things seem fine only publically, on the surface . . . but in their hearts they know they are wasting money on evil things and making only the upper ranks seem good, while investigating and accusing those below for even the least matter.31 The Fuji ascetic was abreast of the effects of government policies not only in Edo but also in several areas of the country. In addition to the shogunate he accuses specific domains for their punitive treatment of ordinary people, while praising others for their fair and compassionate efforts to relieve the suffering of peasants by providing food assistance.32 At this juncture Jikigyō Miroku realized that the time had come for determined action on his part to remedy these perceived injustices. After bitterly complaining about Yoshimune’s interventionist rice policies, he arrives in the Addendum at a startling resolution: “It was announced that one would be considered at fault if one sold rice directly at a low price, and that the Eight Kantō provinces would not be able to export rice [to Edo] either, bringing harm to the people. . . . Even though my allotted life span extends to sixty-eight years, I will go to the Tuśita Heaven, the mirror of Mount Fuji, the Everlasting Peak of the Three Countries, at the age of sixty-three, on the seventeenth day of the sixth month of this year.”33 True to his word, later that year the Fuji leader ascended Mount Fuji and starved himself to death. Given the tenor of his remarks in the weeks leading up to that event, scholars have reasonably assumed that he hoped the merit of his sacrifice would somehow redress the imbalances of the Tokugawa socioeconomic order and accelerate the fulfillment of the new age. The rationale and cultural context of this remarkable behavior, however, invite further contemplation.

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Jikigyō’s Suicide and Its Logic The story of Jikigyō Miroku’s passing that came to be accepted in Fujikō cannot be corroborated by reports that originated outside the group. However, the narrative of Jikigyō’s final days that emerges from his own brief remarks (in letters purportedly written during the last few months before he died) and from testimonies by his disciples, ostensibly recorded soon after the event, is reasonably consistent. In a “Farewell Letter” (Betsuri no tegami) written in early 1733 to his brothers in Ise Kawakami, Jikigyō announced that he would climb to the summit of Mount Fuji in the middle of the sixth month of that year. He urged his family to preserve his three main writings (the Unspoken Word, the Addendum, and Realization) for future generations, and, in particular, to deliver these works to the emperor and shogun (in order to convey to them the pressing matter of the Age of Miroku).34 About two months later, he wrote to Tanabe Jūrōemon, who would accompany him on the climb, and laid out the planned itinerary.35 “I will leave Edo at the hour of the rabbit [ca. 6 a.m.] on the tenth day of the sixth month. I usually arrive in your area on the thirteenth day, but this year I will arrive on the twelfth day, by the hour of the dragon [ca. 8 a.m.]. On the thirteenth, at the hour of the rabbit I will fill my two geta with one thousand gods and buddhas and transport a four-sided, three-foot shrine-cabinet up the mountain.36 On the fourteenth day I will reach Shaka’s Split Rock at the summit.”37 More information about Jikigyō Miroku’s final pilgrimage is contained in the writings of followers who purportedly either witnessed it themselves or transcribed the remarks of those who did. I rely here mostly on Koizumi Bunrokurō’s memoir Koizumi Bunrokurō oboegaki, which includes information about the ascetic’s death and its aftermath that seems relatively authentic in its detail.38 Informal notes regarding the death event have also been attributed to Tanabe Jurōemon’s son, Nakaganmaru Toyomune, known as Takichi (1721–1783), who assisted his father in attending Jikigyō during the month-long fast at Eboshi Rock.39 The narrative that circulated most widely in the later Fuji movement, however, consists of Jurōemon’s preface and concluding entry in the Thirty-One Days.40 Bunrokurō makes a point of telling us that Jikigyō Miroku built the shrinecabinet (zushi) on his own, without any help from others. In terms of personal effects the ascetic is said to have brought with him, in addition to the geta, an upper garment that he made himself (plus an alternate that his oldest daughter, Ume, provided); as well as a pair of thick-spun cotton trousers (nobakama) that he had also stitched together for the occasion. Jikigyō further supplied himself with a homemade seat cushion, a writing brush, an ink stone, some writing

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paper, a flint box, and a container of lamp oil.41 He used a packhorse to bring the zushi and other items part of the way up the mountain, and proceeded from there on foot to Jūrōemon’s place at Ōyukiai (at the eighth station).42 After consuming a last meal and resting a bit in the small hours of the morning of the thirteenth, Jikigyō continued up to the peak, accompanied by several fellow practitioners (dōgyō).43 When he arrived at the summit he paid his respects at revered sites around the crater, reaching Shaka’s Split Rock at noon. Jikigyō had little use for the ritual taboos and protocols that were promoted by the Tokugawa temple-shrine establishment, as we have seen. The disjuncture between his understanding of the ideal way to meet the god of Mount Fuji and the orthodox view came sharply to the fore when the Main Sengen Shrine authorities at Ōmiya interfered with his plan to die at the summit of Mount Fuji (over which the shrine maintained jurisdiction). Soon after Jikigyō installed his cabinet at Shaka’s Split Rock and entered it, word came that Ōmiya would not permit him to fast to death there. The ascetic reportedly resisted but in the end was obliged to to move the cabinet down to Eboshi Rock, which is located about halfway between the seventh and original eighth stations on the northern trail. The Main Sengen Shrine on the southern side of the mountain is thought to have opposed Jikigyō’s plan because of pressure from residents of the mountain’s foothills, who believed that an earlier suicide at Shaka’s Split Rock (discussed below) had angered the mountain god and triggered disastrous weather conditions.44 In other words, the ostensible grounds for the shrine’s denial were that another death at the summit would defile the sacred peak and rile the mountain deity even more. However, the decision was probably also related to issues of control. Jikigyō and his followers had long cultivated relations with the Yoshida oshi on the northern trail, but from the perspective of the pilgrimage establishment at Ōmiya on the southern side of the mountain he was something of an interloper. Tanabe Jūrōemon reportedly visited Eboshi Rock every day, offering melted snow to Jikigyō, reciting prayers, and recording his teacher’s daily remarks. On the thirteenth day of the seventh month, the day on which Jikigyō had predicted he would pass away, Jūrōemon made his way to the site in the early morning hours, accompanied by his son. Takichi later described their experience of Jikigyō’s last moments as follows: As usual we recited the holy verses in front of the shrine-cabinet and then we were told to open it. When we unfastened [the doors], as before [Jikigyō Miroku kū] took some snow in his hands and wet his lips with it, and then lectured again. At that time clouds gathered from all four directions, and before long a little rain fell. . . . He indicated that the time for

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his entry into nirvana [nyūmyō] was approaching, and in a little while, as he was performing obeisance, the rain stopped, and the clear sky and bright sun reappeared. When he finished reciting the holy verses, he closed his eyes, just like that.45 At that point both of us, father and son, wept miserably. When we raised our voices in lament and asked him to grant us his teaching at least one more time, like infants longing for their mother’s breast, he opened his eyes once more and smiled brightly. He then leaned back, with his elbows on the armrest behind him. It was the farewell of a lifetime. My father sank in grief.46 Jūrōemon relates in his own account that after a short period he closed the doors of the shrine-cabinet, pushed stones and gravel up against it and around it (to prevent it being toppled by snow and wind), paid his final respects, and descended the mountain with little further ado.47 While descriptions of Jikigyō Miroku’s death differ slightly in emphasis and detail, the substance is fundamentally the same.48 His aim in voluntarily giving up his life, however, remains a compelling question. Was Jikigyō’s final act driven by a near-apocalyptic urgency to draw people’s attention to the divine imperative that they reform themselves? Or was his voluntary death more in the nature of a cosmic transaction in which his human life, empowered by the merit of his lifelong austerities, would be exchanged for a recalibration of the Age of Miroku, with all its social and material implications? Either way, did Jikigyō not also have the political aim of rousing the government into action? In his comprehensive study Fujikō no rekishi Iwashina Koichirō suggests that Jikigyō made his irrevocable sacrifice in order to “save the people,” in line with the customary Japanese notion that ascetics can transfer the merit accrued from their austerities (including death) to their followers.49 Ōtani Masayuki proposes that Jikigyō died in order to become a tenshi (heavenly being)—that is, a servant of the Fuji deity who could then exert himself in the spiritual world on behalf of the people he left behind. 50 Royall Tyler for his part relates the ascetic’s suicide to the Fuji vision of cosmic balance and well-being: Jikigyō “died to feed the world. In becoming the perfect vessel of the Fuji deity, he made himself into food—rice—for all.”51 One of Jikigyō’s distinctive teachings, as we have seen, was the identification of rice (or sustenance in general) with Mount Fuji and with himself; his very name, Jikigyō (“food discipline”), incorporates the idea of self-restraint in eating. The death fast was in this sense an extreme act of frugality that would sustain (or renew) the world—not only spiritually but perhaps materially in some sense as well. Jikigyō’s denial of food, a classic ascetic act in Japan as elsewhere, could be interpreted along

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these lines as a “socio-ritual-cosmic transaction” that he believed would rectify the imbalance of the universe.52 Given the specific context in which it occurred, however, the Fuji leader’s death is best understood as more than a mountain ascetic’s sacrificial quest to bring relief to his followers or the world at large. Jikigyō Miroku’s suicide was also a critical response, and in that sense an act of opposition, to Tokugawa Yoshimune’s policies.53 We noted earlier that toward the end of his life Jikigyō became increasingly preoccupied with people’s responsibility to improve themselves in order to ensure the fulfillment of the ideal world. In his last writings he noticeably intensified his stress on personal moral reform. He was fundamentally conservative in his social outlook and like other religious thinkers of the time upheld the Tokugawa status system and the behavioral norms for each of the four classes, a position that he often reinforced by tying the successful embodiment of these values to concrete benefits in this or a future life.54 We have seen that this growing stress on moral conduct took the form especially of exhortations to work hard, with an “upright mind,” at one’s respective family occupation. At the same time, up until the end Jikigyō continued to call not only on people in general but specifically on the rulers of Japan to fulfill their anointed role in the establishment of a just society. In comparison with Buddhist and Confucianminded popularizers of the values endorsed by the Tokugawa order, Jikigyō was more intensely invested in the idea that the smooth operation of the class system depended on a broader social justice.55 In the Age of Miroku the members of the four classes were to respect each other as coparticipants in the socioeconomic order. They would live in harmony and enjoy plentiful resources—a state of affairs that would be guaranteed by a compassionate and fair government, just as Tokugawa Muneharu had seemed to imply in his Onchi seiyō. In view of the shogunate’s blatant failure to implement this ideal, as evidenced in the Kyōhō famine and social unrest of 1733, Jikigyō came to believe that a radical act of self-denial would engender not only a generalized spiritual renewal but also the tangible reforms that he felt were urgently needed. In sum, it is unlikely that the Fuji ascetic envisioned his death only as Buddhist-type transfer of merit that would ensure the salvation of people in some diffuse sense. By starving himself he was also making a statement that had political and economic significance. Jikigyō Miroku’s close followers seem to have interpreted his voluntary death along these lines as having importance for both the rulers of the time and for people in general. Koizumi Bunrokurō’s comparison of Jikigyō’s death with that of Kichidō Anzan (1608–1677), a Sōtō Zen monk who had chosen to die on Mount Fuji several decades earlier, is revealing in this regard:

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The monk Anzan entered nirvana [nyūjō] on Mount Fuji, but with what sort of sentiment in his heart? We have not heard that he wrote even one word for the sake of all beings. Certainly, it appears that he entered nirvana with his mind settled and clear. Yet [his death] was not for the sake of all people or for the sake of the emperor and the shogun56 —it was not a model for the last age [of the Dharma]. It was not an act of service or reverence for those above—therefore it was without any benefit. . . . [Jikigyō Miroku kū] underwent fifty-four years of cruel bodily austerities, and forty-five years of arduous practices and suffering for the sake of [world] salvation, sacrificing his mind and his body to offer up his prayer [to Sengen].57 In this passage Bunrokurō is plainly invested in establishing the superior value of his teacher’s self-sacrifice, but he also echoes the rationale that Jikigyō himself had enunciated in the Addendum. We saw above that the ascetic framed the decision to end his life as a divine mandate to address the pressing problems that he had witnessed in Tokugawa society. By fasting to death Jikigyō no doubt aimed to save others by offering up the spiritual merit that would result from his extraordinary sacrifice, following the customary understanding of ascetic selfdenial. At the same time, however, he was also concertedly calling attention to the mistakes of the world, including those of the emperor and shogun, in order that the existing social and economic imbalances could be tangibly resolved and the Age of Miroku properly realized. In light of the sociopolitical strictures of the time, there were few ways in which an itinerant peddler, much less one associated with an obscure religious group, could contest Tokugawa policy without grave personal risk. Only a profoundly self-effacing act could succeed in commanding attention without leading to negative consequences, including for other members of the group. Suicide is such an act—it is a conscious attempt to communicate a message that might not otherwise be appreciated or even noticed. Particularly in Edo Japan, killing oneself was perhaps the most effective way to make a controversial moral or political statement without violating one’s obligations to superiors or family. The dramatic reenactment of lovers’ suicides and self-destructive samurai feats of loyalty that were all the rage among theatergoers in Japan’s large cities during this period are only the most obvious evidence of the symbolic capital of voluntary death in this regard. In Jikigyō’s case his final austerity in effect performed for the world the dire imbalance of the universe as well as the urgency of redressing it. That Jikigyō felt his last mission to be a purposive testimonial of this kind is also clear from his commitment to preach, reportedly once a day for thirty-one

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days, while sitting in what amounted to a vertical coffin—and, not least, to ensure that his words were recorded. By undertaking to kill himself virtually as he spoke rather than simply circulating his views in writing or otherwise publicly extemporizing (a method of communication that would probably have invited censure and premature silencing), Jikigyō stood to influence others on a scale otherwise impossible for him to achieve. Ultimately, however, it was Jikigyō’s manner of dying that marked the special nature of his message more effectively than any verbal articulation of his teachings might have done. One has only to consider the emotive impact of the preliminaries carried out by ideologically driven suicides in general. In these highly charged events, whether traditional or modern, the rituals conducted in preparation for the act, the stylization of the act itself, and the textual and visual representations left behind by the deceased all serve to focus attention on the urgency and magnitude of the ideals professed. Moreover, although a suicide ritual, as in Jikigyō’s case, inevitably draws on the stock of ideas, practices, and conventions in which the actor happens to be embedded in that historical moment, in the final analysis it is invariably a performance that confronts the status quo with a radically different point of view—and one that, by its very nature, cannot readily be challenged. Beginning with Émile Durkheim’s classic study of suicide, modern scholars have debated the possible motives and causes of voluntary death, often highlighting the broader social conditions that seem to encourage or discourage it.58 Recent anthropological scholarship has taken into account not only the purported causes, however, but also the effects of suicide. In some societies, taking one’s own life may be understood as an act of revenge, and in others as a social protest that asserts the individual’s claims more effectively than the range of possible actions that the person could have taken in life. It has been argued, for example, that among the Duna people of Papua New Guinea “the suicide victim may live in more tangible terms after death than prior to it, especially in terms of transactional exchanges.”59 Depending on the context, suicide may be understood as an action done in order to correct an imbalance in a sociopolitical or economic relationship. A similar dynamic is arguably at work in the case of modern ideological suicides who leave behind videotaped last words in which they make explicit their expectations of those they leave behind, whether it be acts of political revolution, their own apotheosis, or the elevation of loved ones to a special status in the community. In these scenarios of self-destruction, in other words, the terms of the negotiation between the suicide and the pertinent social group extend beyond death. Jikigyō’s final act could be seen in this light as not the last but the first move in an exchange that assumed reciprocation from his intended audiences. His

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partners in the suicidal transaction, the consumers of his sacrificial offering (of himself as food, as Tyler has it), were on one level simply people in general and his followers. On another level, however, they were the governing authorities of Japan. Assuming both the people and the rulers fulfilled their end of the contract, as it were, Jikigyō’s ultimate self-denial would guarantee the world of harmony and equality that Sengen had ordained.

The Death Style in Context For a full appreciation of the logic and significance of Jikigyō Miroku’s suicide, however, it is important to take into consideration the specific ritual and cultural environment in which it occurred. In traditional Japan mountains were customarily associated with death and the other world.60 By the early eighteenth century, when Jikigyō passed away on Mount Fuji, a rich complex of ideas and practices, both native and imported, had come to embellish these earlier linkages between mountains and the realm of death, including the performance in mountainous areas of life-threatening austerities, in some cases culminating in deliberate death for religious aims. In Edo Japan these kinds of ascetic practices were associated mostly with Buddhism and Shugendō.61 Voluntary death in the mountains often involved gradual self-starvation and occasionally, according to some accounts, live interment. The style of the death Jikigyō Miroku chose is not unrelated to these historical precedents, but it was also a distinctive reinterpretation of the accepted conventions of religious suicide at the time. By “style of death” I mean not only the manner in which Jikigyō expired, as described above, but also the posthumous treatment of his body. His remains have been considered an example of the rather exclusive class of Japanese mummies. These objects are generally classified as either planned or unplanned in nature. The unplanned type is believed to have come into being randomly, because of desiccation, freezing, or other inadvertent environmental circumstances. Planned mummies in turn may be categorized as either natural or processed. So-called natural mummies were preserved simply by interring them in special containers or chambers immediately before or soon after death. The processed ones in contrast were posthumously subjected to elaborate technologies, such as extraction of the internal organs or the application of preservative substances (saltwater, oils, medicinal herbs).62 The largest and probably best-known group of processed Japanese mummies were found in Yamagata and Niigata Prefectures. In life these individuals were mountain ascetics (gyōnin) associated with Mount Yudono who aspired to an almost literal form of “becoming Buddha in this very body” (sokushin jōbutsu),

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the central aim of the esoteric Buddhist teachings with which this type of mountain asceticism is imbued. Beginning in the late seventeenth century the corpses of several Yudono ascetics were deliberately preserved after death and eventually set up for worship as buddha images in special temples in the Mount Yudono area and elsewhere.63 Andrea Castiglioni has argued convincingly that, contrary to a widely held view, the Yudono practitioners did not intentionally end their lives.64 However, the gyōnin may in some cases have anticipated that their bodies would be subjected to preservation techniques; for periods of time they allegedly ingested only leaves, bark, and other tree products, following the established ascetic practice of mokujiki or “tree-eating.”65 After death their bodies were placed in wooden coffins in an underground stone chamber for three years and then exhumed and arranged into the full lotus position. The seated figures were clothed in religious garments, positioned to hold ritual instruments, placed inside enshrinement cabinets (zushi), and thereafter worshipped as buddhas “in the body.”66 Several other religious practitioners turned into mummies or died in confinement in the Edo period, although again not necessarily in conjunction with a deliberate death event. In one case in the late seventeenth century the body of a priest called Shungi was squeezed into a small chamber inside a stone image of Amida Buddha associated with Myōhōji (a Tendai temple in Ibaraki Prefecture) and left to mummify naturally. His death was not suicidal, but he had apparently abstained from eating grains for a period before his demise.67 In another case, Chiei, a contemporary of Jikigyō Miroku, was only in his thirties when he entered a stone chamber next to a Shingon Buddhist temple in Nagano and began a continuous prayer session aimed at eliminating epidemic diseases in the area; he is said to have died fifteen days later.68 An example of a processed mummy is the body of Shūkai, a learned Shingon priest and devotee of Miroku (Maitreya Buddha). In 1780 he reportedly entered a hut that he had built behind his temple in Niigata and slowly starved himself to death while carrying out a form of esoteric Buddhist meditation.69 Shūkai does not seem to have envisioned being mummified after death; the posthumous treatment of his body was more likely a function of his followers’ hopes and needs. These cases of voluntary death and/or posthumous bodily preservation, both planned and unplanned, share recurring features. The death in each instance was invariably a ritual event that involved preliminary fasting, whether partial or complete. Quite apart from the presumed spiritual benefit of this form of selfdenial, the modulation of diet, particularly the avoidance of grains, was believed to enhance the eventual corpse’s resistance to decomposition. A second point in common is that prospective mummies and religious suicides of the Edo period

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were frequently confined (or confined themselves) in enclosed structures, either above or below ground, usually in the seated lotus position. Third, the individuals’ death and preservation processes were socially organized. The successful outcome of the Yudono ascetics’ mummification, for example, depended heavily on the help of faithful supporters who supplied the proper type of sustenance to the gyōnin before they died and carefully managed the incubation and preservation processes afterward. Further, virtually all the deceased practitioners who became (or were made into) mummies in premodern Japan were eventually transformed into objects of popular worship, regardless of their intentions in life. People regularly turned to these icons for assistance with health care, family stability, and economic prosperity; as noted, severe regimens of fasting, prolonged bodily confinement, or other forms of physical mortification, especially those resulting in death, were thought to set in motion the power to transfer concrete benefits (such as the healing of illnesses) to the faithful.70 Death by severe fasting and self-confinement in caves, huts, coffins, or cabinets was thus a well-known if rare event in early modern Japan, including on Mount Fuji. As mentioned above, eleven years before Jikigyō Miroku moved to Edo and began practicing under Getsugyō, the Zen monk Anzan chose to die in confinement on the mountain; he “entered nirvana” close to the summit, at Shaka’s Split Rock.71 Later in the Tokugawa period, in 1817, a Fuji ascetic called Myōshin passed away after a thirty-one-day fast—although he confined himself horizontally in a wooden coffin rather than upright. In 1827 the Fujikō mountain guide, Seigyō Tokuzan, carried out a twenty-eight-day fast in Abstinence Cave (Shōjin o-ana) on Mount Fuji; he followed up five years later with a twenty-twoday death fast in the same cave.72 Jikigyō’s decision to enclose himself in a shrine-cabinet in preparation for death was well within this evolving pattern of mountain ascetic practice. Following the convention for Buddhist-oriented practitioners to signal their nyūjō in advance, he consciously prearranged himself in a cross-legged position and followed the same predeath dietary restrictions as other prospective mummies of the time.73 Yet unlike the ascetics who undertook a final ritual confinement, Jikigyō did not choose an underground coffin, or a hut or a cave, as his place of enclosure. A container or chamber of this kind would have been impracticable on the stony upper reaches of Mount Fuji. Furthermore, in contrast to other ascetics, Jikigyō Miroku intended to die as a pilgrim (albeit an extraordinary one) at the summit, in visible union with the parental mountain, his Father and Mother—and not from inside, as Kakugyō had done in Hitoana, but out in the open, in full view of the mountainscape and the world below. In other words, Jikigyō’s death was clearly intended to be the ultimate zenjō—a term that strictly

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denotes an advanced meditative state but that in Japan also meant pilgrimage to a revered mountain.74 Whether Jikigyō was seeking to save the world by offering up the remaining years of his life, or was making a politically charged statement, or both, judging from his own testimony and that of his biographers he clearly was not interested in becoming a self-perpetuating icon by dying in a seated position in a shrinecabinet. Even though his manner of death bore certain external similarities to existing traditions of practice (preliminary fasting, confinement, the crosslegged position), it had little in common with the “Buddha in this body” paradigm attributed, for example, to the Yudono practitioners, who in life were arguably not averse to (and may have been complicit in) the posthumous embalming of their bodies. In these and other religious mummification cases, it was chiefly the active intervention of a community of followers that enabled the deceased ascetics’ transformation into buddha images worshipped by future generations. Written accounts of Jikigyō’s death event do not indicate that his disciples made any concerted effort to preserve the ascetic’s body for posterity. Jikigyō had not been entirely without concern for the details of the aftermath of his death. Both Bunrokurō and Jūrōemon assert in their narratives that their teacher wanted the personal items that he used during his fast to be passed on to his family and disciples. In particular, he asked Jūrōemon to return his cotton upper garment and nobakama trousers to his wife, Ogin, and his three daughters (figure 5.1).75 Jikigyō allegedly also wrote several strings of ritual text on the inside walls of his zushi, perhaps assuming that it, too, would eventually be brought down the mountain and preserved.76 But there is no evidence that the ascetic left behind any directives about how his corpse should be treated. Regular or frequent attendance at the death site was in any case virtually precluded, given its inaccessibility for most of the year. When Jūrōemon returned to check the shrine-cabinet the following summer, he found the corpse sitting in the box with its legs still crossed and its head inclined downward. He reported that Jikigyō’s body had not deteriorated and maintained a good appearance. When he next visited the site the following year the corpse had solidified in the same seated position.77 (It is presumably this testimony that has led modern anatomists to include Jikigyō’s remains in their overall Japanese mummy count.) In premodern East Asia the failure of a corpse to decompose was often taken to authenticate an individual’s sanctity,78 and we may wonder whether Tanabe Jūrōemon’s remarks about the good condition of the body were designed to address a similar expectation among Jikigyō’s followers. The eminent twentiethcentury scholar of Fujikō, Iwashina Koichirō, in fact expresses regret that Jikigyō’s body was not as well preserved as “the Hagurosan mummies”—if it had

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Figure 5.1.  Under-apron and nobakama said to have been worn by Jikigyō Miroku at the time of his death in 1733. Collection of Itō Kenkichi. Source: Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi.

been, he says, it may well have become the central object of devotion in Fujikō thereafter.79 Yet Jūrōemon and Jikigyō’s other disciples did not insert in their narratives any such interpretation of the posthumous state of their teacher’s body. The dry air and extremely low temperatures at Eboshi Rock (which is at a height of about 3,250 meters), combined with the attenuated condition of Jikigyō’s body after a month-long fast, no doubt encouraged the natural mummification of the corpse. At some point subsequent to Jūrōemon’s second visit, in any case, Jikigyō’s zushi seems to have been badly damaged—not surprisingly, given the harsh weather conditions to which it was subjected—and the corpse lost its integrity. Jikigyō’s followers (still rather few in number at the time) apparently made no attempt or were unable to reconstitute the body of their leader. We are told that the group members simply gathered Jikigyō’s scattered remains and interred them in the usual manner in a stone receptacle, which they later installed in the cemetery of Kaizōji, their teacher’s ancestral temple in Edo.80 In contrast to the sokushin jōbutsu model of corpse exaltation that inspired some Shugendō and

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Buddhist practitioners, the Fuji leader’s body was never enshrined or treated as an object of worship in any sense—nor is there evidence that Jikigyō had ever envisioned it becoming such an object. To be sure, he chose to “enshrine” himself in a homemade cabinet, but after a lifetime of climbing the mountain he was certainly familiar with the severe meteorological conditions at the mountain’s upper reaches, and it is unlikely that he considered the zushi to be much more than a respectable but temporary shelter that would allow him to preach his last words. Jikigyō’s reserved attitude toward the aftermath of his demise coheres well with the Fuji ascetic’s stated views. In death as in life he defined himself and his teaching in opposition to certain conventions even as he necessarily drew on elements of the religious orthopraxy to render his message culturally acceptable.81 Over the years Jikigyō had repeatedly denounced the ritual and economic extravagances of contemporary religious institutions. He had argued insistently against overdoing ceremonial events, almsgiving, and prayer services at the expense of the needy. It is difficult to imagine that he would have approved of subjecting anybody’s body to posthumous preservation procedures in order to establish yet another worship image, much less his own. Jikigyō’s central emphasis had always been the importance of maintaining a direct relationship with Sengen and of eliminating the custom of commissioning prayers for benefits to other objects of worship, whether buddhas, bodhisattvas, kami, or apotheosized human beings. The Fuji ascetic’s stark manner of dying may be interpreted in this sense as a form of tacit dissent from the tradition revived in the Edo period by the devotees of mountain ascetics such as the Yudono gyōnin or other socalled sokushin jōbutsu figures. That tradition, as noted, required significant communal support, including financial and labor investment by the affiliated followers and/or temple personnel in each case. Jikigyō seems rather to have planned his death in such a way as to preclude or at least diminish the expenditure of material resources. Sewing his own death garments, making his own coffin, carrying it up the mountain, sitting upright in it while abstaining from all food, and (if we are to trust Jūrōemon’s parsing of the text) preaching a few select words each day until he expired were all acts that epitomized “making do with less” in the face of what Jikigyō perceived as the overwrought socioreligious economy of the time. The Fuji ascetic’s relatively unceremonious departure was an assertion of the same values and reformist attitude toward the existing world order that he articulated in his writings. Jikigyō Miroku’s self-starvation was thus distinctly activist in nature. As we saw in chapter 3, his entire adult life had consisted in a series of acts of renunciation, ranging from his abandonment of the conventional life of a merchant and

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household head to his incessant cold-water austerities, fasts, and arduous mountain climbs. These acts of physical self-denial, like the ascetic practices attributed to Kakugyō and his early followers, were politically and socially meaningful because they marked out an alternative sphere of practice within the established framework of mountain devotionalism and invigorated it by means of new ritual materials, ideas, and social groupings. Jikigyō’s death at Eboshi Rock, however, was also political in a more purposive and specific sense—it was a deliberate statement in response to the state of affairs in the Tokugawa lifeworld of his time. Along with the other signs of original thinking in the Fuji religious community noted throughout this book, whether heterodox visual and linguistic culture, admonitory gestures toward the authorities, rejection of ritual taboos, or open calls for socioeconomic justice, Jikigyō Miroku’s final austerity palpably reveals the movement’s landmark position in the history of independent religion in early modern Japan.

Conclusion

It is sometimes assumed that Fujikō spread widely in the late Tokugawa period because of the impact of Jikigyō Miroku’s suicide on the mountain. However, there is little evidence that the event was widely publicized or that many people became familiar with his religious teachings in its immediate aftermath.1 Jikigyō left behind only a modest number of followers at the time of his death.2 The later expansion of the movement was related rather to the increasing lure of the Fuji pilgrimage and associated ritual activities, which along with travel to Ise, Ōyama, Tateyama, Konpira, and many other popular devotional sites reflected broader socioeconomic and religious trends of the time. The demand for assistance with problems of health and fortune grew markedly in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries—as some historians suggest, in response to severe natural disasters, famines, and the economic stresses associated with the breakdown of the Tokugawa order—and the scale of devotional activity in quest of assistance or relief, including travel to revered sites, developed exponentially.3 The rise of new religious movements in the nineteenth century has similarly been attributed to people’s need for social relief and communal solidarity.4 Yet modern scholars have also suggested that there was a fundamental disjunction in worldview between the members of these movements (whether termed people’s religions or new religions) and the religious professionals, especially mountain ascetics, whose ritual territory the emerging lay groups sometimes infringed upon. The diffusion of ideals of personal cultivation among ordinary townspeople and villagers, especially the focus on the heart or mind as the starting point of moral discipline (along the lines of popularized forms of Neo-Confucian thought such as Shingaku), was cited as a formative influence in the new movements, as discussed earlier. The Fuji religious tradition, too, particularly in its later formulation as Fujidō, shared certain features in common with the nineteenth-century new religions in this regard, and thus was grouped with them as a genuine “religion of the people” that advocated a protomodern sense of moral autonomy. The original teachings of Jikigyō Miroku, however, did not really amount to a religion of self-cultivation. The importance of maintaining moral integrity, or a 156

Conclusion  157

“straight mind,” was an important theme in his interpretation of devotion to the deity of Mount Fuji. But unlike the discovery of one’s true heart through moral self-examination, contemplative practices, and group discussion, as advocated by Ishida Baigan and his latter-day followers (including members of new religions such as Kurozumikyō and Misogikyō), the Fuji conception of religious salvation was not embedded in a graded cosmology according to which the discipline of one’s mental and affective states would itself somehow generate beneficial changes at the larger levels of body, family, and society. From the outset Kakugyō Tōbutsu’s creative refigurations of late medieval religious culture in the form of ominuki and fusegi served as cornerstones of ritual life in the Fuji religious community. The principal message of those revealed image-texts, conveyed visually and orally, was the preeminent status of Mount Fuji as the male and female Parent of all things. Jikigyō Miroku received this ritual-aesthetic heritage, including its associated talismanic and devotional practices, and chose to elaborate, in verbal discourse suited to the chōnin sensibilities of his own milieu, its main import—namely, that human beings and the natural world are cocreators with Mount Fuji, the dual-gendered source of all life. The central concern in this group thus became fulfilling this divinely ordained responsibility—that is, restoring ethical norms, justice, and material balance to society and the cosmos because the True Father and Mother willed it. This type of devotion to a potent, saving deity dominated several religious movements of the late Tokugawa period as well; in these so-called salvation-type movements, such as Nyoraikyō and Tenrikyō, the impetus for self-reform (kokoro naoshi) was propelled in the first place by followers’ fervent faith in powerful deities.5 In medieval Japan individuals who aspired to the mountain ascetic ideal that has come to be associated with Shugendō viewed their own bodily actions, specifically acts of physical self-denial, as determinative of broader spiritual and social conditions. This way of thinking had been shaped by a framework of ritual practice that was infused with an esoteric Buddhist interest in sensory and corporeal experience, and it persisted among mountain practitioners in the early Edo period. The focus of the ascetic paradigm was on purifying and disciplining the body in quest of spiritual understanding and power, but it was ostensibly aimed at benefiting others in concrete ways, rather than simply improving oneself. Although the practice of individual mountain austerities is often said to have declined in the Edo period, the image of Kakugyō Tōbutsu as a heroic ascetic, which inspired his disciples in the seventeenth century and was later promoted in Fujikō, epitomizes this very yamabushi ideal. Kakugyō’s followers in the early Edo period were mostly artisans and small-scale merchants, not fulltime mountain ascetics, but the more dedicated among them nonetheless took

158  Conclusion

seriously the value of physical endurance and self-denial as a path to relieving those in need by means of the talismanic and healing powers that they purportedly acquired through their disciplines. Jikigyō’s critique of kaji kitō was not directed against ritual assistance founded on genuine religious commitment of this nature, but rather against the consumption and commercialization of these practices outside a framework of devotion to the god of Mount Fuji, and the resultant economic waste. The early Fuji movement is most fruitfully understood as akin to some later religious movements for a number of reasons, then, but not primarily because it promoted moral subjectivity, rationality, or cultivation of the mind over against reliance on ritual therapies, formulaic prayer, or talismanic techniques. Healing and apotropaic protocols were a regular and integral part of the Fuji religion throughout its history, as they were (and are) in the new religions, if not Japanese religious life in general. More significantly, as I have emphasized, the members of these groups, both the Fuji community and certain nineteenth-century movements, shared a vision of restoring the natural equilibrium and prosperity of human society and the universe, as willed by a powerful parental God, with all the implications of this vision for social justice and equity—including the rejection of established notions of women’s ritual impurity. It was the impulse to right the world in this larger sense that fueled the independent thinking and capacity for dissent of some Fuji practitioners during the movement’s formative stages—a capacity intimated in the early group’s heterodox ritual and linguistic culture, and later unambiguously disclosed in Jikigyō Miroku’s writings and final ascetic act.

Glossary of Japanese and Chinese Characters

Included here are most terms, names, and titles used in this study (excluding authors and titles of works listed in the bibliography), as well as selected Mount Fuji place names. As a rule, individuals are listed according to the name by which they are best known; additional names are provided for key members of the Fuji religious movement. Orthography follows that of the original sources, with alternative readings and/or characters added for clarification, as needed. akagome 赤米 Akaike 赤池 Akakura 赤倉 Amanominaka-nushi 天野三中主, 天御中主 Amaterasu 天照 Amida 阿弥陀 Andō Shōeki 安藤昌益 annai ezu 案内絵図 annaizu 案内図 annon 安穏 anzan 安産 aru shūkyō dantai ある宗教団体 Asama, Sengen 浅間 ashi no ha あしのは Banmin tokuyō 万民徳用 Benzaiten 弁財天 bettō 別当 bijo 美女 biwa 琵琶 bonten 梵天 bosatsu 菩薩 bugyō 奉行 bunmei kaika 文明開化 butsu, hotoke 佛 chichi  chichihaha  Chiei 智映

Chikamatsu Monzaemon 近松門左衛門 Chiseibō 池西坊 Chōjitsu Gakkō Butsu 長日月光佛 chōnin 町人 chūgū 中宮 Chūzenji 中禅寺 dai, shidai 第 daibosatsu 大菩薩 daiga 大我 daiissan 第一山 daikan 代官 daikishin 大鬼神 Daikokuya 大黒屋 Daikyōbō 大鏡坊 daimoku 題目 Dainichi 大日 Dainichidō 大日堂 daisan 代参 Daitōryō 大棟梁 danka 檀家 danna 檀那 Deguchi Nao 出口なお Denjū 田十 Dewa Sanzan 出羽三山 dōgyō 同行 Doi 土井 dōsha 道者

159

160  Glossary eboshi 烏帽子 Eboshi Iwa 烏帽子巌 Edo 江戸 eejanaika ええじゃないか efuda 絵札 ehon 絵本 eika 詠歌 En no Gyōja 役行者 Enchōji 円長寺 engi 縁起 ennen 縁年 enza 円座 etoki 絵解き fu 符 fū ふう Fudō Myōo 不動明王 Fugen 普賢 Fuji 富士, 不二 Fuji gannin 富士願人 Fuji gyōnin 富士行人 Fuji kaji mizu 富士加持水 Fuji no gannin 富士の願人 Fuji sankei mandara 富士参詣曼陀羅 Fuji shinkō 富士信仰 Fujidō 不二道 fujigori 富士垢離 Fujikō, Fuji kō 富士講 Fujisan 富士山 Fujisan danki 富士山檀記 Fujisan hachiyō kuson 富士山八葉九尊 Fujisan hōin 富士山宝印 Fujisan Hongū SengenTaisha 富士山本宮浅 間大社 Fujiwara 藤原 fujizuka 富士塚 fuju 符呪 fuju fuse 不受不施 Funatsu 船津 furachi 不埒 furikawari 振り替わり fusegi 風世侎, 風勢喜, 富世喜 fushigi no gyōja 不思議の行者 fusho 符書 fusoku 不足 Fusōkyō 扶桑教 fusui no kaji 符水の加持

futa-oya no oya 二親のおや gadai 我大 Ganbō 旺法 Gankei 旺渓 Ganken 旺賢 Hasegawa Shin’emon 長谷川 新右衛門 gannin 願人 gannin bōzu 願人坊主 Ganshin 旺心 Akaba Shōzaemon 赤葉庄左 衛門 genze chūshin 現世中心 genze riyaku 現世利益 Gesshin 月心 Murakami Shichizaemon 村 上七左衛門 gessui, tsukimizu 月水 geta 下駄 Getsugan 月旺 Maeno Rihei 前野理兵衛 Getsugan ominuki 月旺御身抜 Getsugyō Sōjū 月行忡 Mori Tarōkichi 森 太郎吉; Yamadaya Kitarō 山田屋喜太郎 gi 侎 giji shūkyō 疑似宗教 Gin ぎん, 吟 gō 合 gofu 護符 gogyō minuki 五行身抜 gohei 御幣 gojūnotō 五重の塔 goma 護摩 gōme 合目 gomonku ごもん句 (御文句) goō hōin 牛黄宝印, 牛王宝印 Gosanpuku 御三幅 goshō sanjū 五障三従 Gotainai 御たいない (御胎内) gozen 御前 gyō 行 gyōja 行者 gyōnin 行人 ha 歯 Hachiyō kuson zu 八葉九尊図 hachiyō mesareru 八葉召される Haguro 羽黒 haha  Hakone 箱根 Hankei 半渓

Glossary  161 Hannya shingyō 般若心経 han-shirōto hōja 半素人法者 hara obi 腹帯 Hayashi Nobuatsu 林信篤 hi 日 Hi no gohiden nōkan 日の御秘伝納巻 Hi no miko 日御子 Hie 日枝 hijiri 聖 hikae-botoke 控え佛 hikari, kō 光 himachi 日待 Hirata Atsutane 平田篤胤 hitō 碑塔 hito no shinbutsu 人のしん仏 Hitoana 人穴 Hitoana Sengen Jinja 人穴浅間神社 Hitoana shugyō ki 人穴修行記 hōben 方便 hōben-gamashiki suji ほうべんがましきすじ (方便がましき筋) Hōdōin 宝幢院 Hofukuji 保福寺 hōin 宝印 hōja 法者 Hōkaiji 宝戒寺 Hokke 法華 Hokugyō 北行 Hōnen 法然 hongan 本願 hongannin 本願人 honji 本地 honjibutsu 本地仏 Honmon Butsuryūshū 本門佛立宗 Honzan 本山 honzon 本尊 hora 洞 Hosaka Hirooki 保坂裕興 Hōshō 宝生 i異 iい Ichigyō Hana 一行はな igaku 異學 Igon 遺言 Ihara Saikaku 井原西鶴 ihō 異法

ihō jahō 異法邪法 ikigami 生き神 ikki 一揆 Imagawa Yoshimoto 今川義元 inori 祈り inshi 淫祀 inshi ronsō 淫祀論争 Inshikō 淫祀考 Inshiron 淫祀論 iriaichi 入会地 Irokawa Daikichi 色川大吉 Ise sankei mandara 伊勢参詣曼陀羅 Ise shōnin 伊勢商人 Iseya 伊勢屋 Ishida Baigan 石田梅岩 Ishimoda Shō 石母田正 ishū 異宗 issei gyōnin 一世行人 Isson Nyorai Kino 一尊如来きの itan 異端 Itō Rokurōbei 伊藤六郎兵衛 iyō 異様 iyō no gaku 異様の學 iyō no gi 異様の儀 iyō no tonaegoto 異様の唱え言 Izanagi 伊奘諾 Izanami 伊奘冉 jakyō 邪教 jigoku meguri 地獄巡り Jihen meikyō shū 寺辺明鏡集 jihi 慈悲 jiki negai じきねがい (直願) Jikigyō Miroku 食行身禄 Itō Ihei 伊藤伊兵 衛; Kobayashi小林 Jikkōkyō 実行教 jinmin 人民 jinzui, shinsui 神水 Jizō 地蔵 jō 丈 Jōdo Hitoana nari 浄土人穴也 jokun 女訓 Jōren’in 浄蓮院 ju, majinai 呪 jufu 呪符 jujutsu 呪術 jumon 呪文

162  Glossary kage かげ (影, 陰) kage negai かげねがい Kaguya-hime かぐや姫, 赫夜姫 Kaibara Ekiken 貝原益軒 Kaifu Keō 開敷華王 kaiko 蚕 kaiko no sho 蚕の書 Kaiko-hime 蚕姫 kaimon 開門 Kaizōji 海蔵寺 kaji kitō 加持祈祷 kakebotoke 懸佛 Kakugyō ominuki 角行御身抜 Kakugyō Tōbutsu 角[書]行藤佛, Tōkaku 東 覚; Hasegawa長谷川 kakun 家訓 kakuran かくらん (霍乱) kakure nenbutsu 隠れ念佛 kami 神 kami no ke 髪の毛 Kami no yo 神の世 kan 巻 kan 貫 kana かな Kan’ei tsūhō 寛永通宝 kanetataki 鉦叩き kanjin 勧進 kanjin hijiri 勧進聖 kanme かんめ, 貫目 Kannon 観音 Kanō Motonobu 狩野元信 kanpaku 関白 karasu moji 烏文字 karasu no omaki 烏の御巻 kashoku 家職 Kawakami 川上 Kawamura Tanken 河村瑞軒 kawaraban 瓦版 Kawate Bunjirō 川手文治郎 Kazebarai fusegi 風祓風先侎 Kazebarai no fusegi 風はらい之風先侎 Kaze-okuri yakubyō saimon 風送り疫病祭 文 Ken-marubi 剣丸尾 kenkon 乾坤 (Ch. qiankun) kenmitsu 顕密

ken’yaku 倹約 kesa 袈裟 kessai 潔斎 kibyōshi 黄表紙 Kichidō Anzan 吉道案山 Kiemon 喜衛門 kigan 祈願 kindai shugi 近代主義 kinen 祈念 kinen kitō 祈念祈祷 kinen kitōsha 祈念祈祷者 kinseiteki no kanjin sekai 近世的の勧進世 界 Kirishitan 切支丹 kisei 祈請 kishōmon 起請文 kitaguchi 北口 Kitaguchi Hongū Fuji Sengen Jinja 北口本 宮富士浅間神社 kitō 祈祷 kitōsha 祈祷者 kō 講 kō, ku, kuchi 口 kō, hikari 光 Kobayashi 小林 Kobayashi Gonzaemon 小林権左衛門 Kobotoke 小仏 kōchū 口中 Kōfukuji 興福寺 kohada こはだ Kōhōji 興法寺 Koizumi Bunrokurō 小泉文六郎 Naotada 尚忠; Takushin Ichiga 琢心一我 kokoro naoshi 心直し kokoro no tetsugaku 心の哲学 kokoro roku ni shite 心ろくにして kokorosai roku ni mochi こころさいろくにも ち koku 石 kōkū  kōkū taisoku 大 Kokugaku 國學 kome 米 Komitake 小御嶽 komori 籠り komoridō 籠り堂

Glossary  163 komorigyō 籠り行 komorisō 籠り僧 komoru 籠る komusō 虚無僧 Kondō Yoshiki 近藤芳樹 Konkōkyō 金光教 Konohana Sakuya-hime 木花咲耶姫 konoshiro このしろ Konpira 金毘羅 kore o yurusu 免之 kori shōjin 垢離精進 kōsatsu 高札 Kōshin, kōshin 庚申 Kotani Sanshi 小谷三志 Rokugyō 禄行 kōya かうや (講屋) Kozawa 小沢 kū  Kumano bikuni 熊野比丘尼 Kumano kanjin jikkai mandara 熊野観心十 界曼陀羅 Kunitokotachi 国常立 Kurozumikyō 黒住教 kuson 九尊 kusurimizu 薬水 kuyō 供養 kuyōtō 供養塔 kyōha Shintō 教派神道 Kyōso Miroku-kū yuisho denki 教祖身禄 由緒伝記 kyū kyū nyo ritsu ryō 急急如律令 (Ch. jiji ru lüling) kyūsai 救済 Kyūtainai 旧胎内 machibure 町触 magatama 真玉 magirawashiki まぎらわしき (紛らわしき) majinai, ju 呪, 咒 makura-tsukue no bukku マクラツクヘノ仏 供 mamori 守り Man まん mandara 曼陀羅 manyōgana 万葉仮名 Marutō kō 丸藤講 Maruyamakyō 丸山教 Matsudai Shōnin 末代上人

Matsudaira Sadanobu 松平定信 mi み, 身, 実 miei 御影 mikazuki 三日月 miko 巫女 Minamoto 源 minkan shinkō 民間信仰 minshū shūkyō 民衆宗教 minshūshi 民衆史 minzoku shūkyō 民俗宗教 minzokugaku 民俗学 Miroku 身禄 Miroku 弥勒 (Skt. Maitreya) Miroku hitsu otaifuku ominuki 身禄筆御大 幅御身抜 Miroku no miyo みろく[身禄] の御世 Miroku no shinpitsu 身禄の真筆 Mise hatto sahō narabi ni iken no koto 店法 度作法並異見事 misekashi suru 店貸しする misogi 禊 Misogikyō 禊教 Mitsui Takahir a 三井高平 Mitsui Takatoshi 三井高利 miya 宮 mizu no iru marubi 水の入丸樋[尾] mizugori 水垢離 mizugoriba 水垢離場 Mizuno Nanboku 水野南北 mokujiki 木食 mon 文 Monju 文殊 moto 元, 本 Mori Sōbei 森惣兵衛 Moto no Chichihaha 元の muken jigoku 無間地獄 Murakami Kōsei 村上 光清; Saburōemon 三 郎衛門 Murata Kiyokaze (Seifu) 村田清風 Murayama 村山 Muryōju 無量寿 mushikuiba ムシクイハ (虫喰い歯) myō 明 Myōhōji 妙法寺 Myōjōten 明星天 myōō sokutai 明王躰, 妙王体

164  Glossary Myōshin 妙心 Myōtō Kaisan 明藤開山 Nachi sankei mandara 那智参詣曼荼羅 naiin 内院 Nakaganmaru Toyomune 中雁丸豊宗 Takichi 多吉; Sengyō Shingetsu 仙行伸月 Nakayama Miki 中山みき namu 南無 nasake 情け nenbutsu 念仏 Nichigyō Nichigan 日行日旺 Kurono Unpei 黒野運平; Keigan 渓旺, Engan 演旺 Nichigyō Seizan 日行青山 Nichigyō Tōjū 日行藤忡 Sakubei 作兵衛 Nichiren 日蓮 Nikkō 日光 ningen hon’i 人間本位 ninsoku yoseba 人足寄場 Nippon eitaigura 日本永代蔵 nise yamabushi 偽山伏 Nishi no umi (Saiko) 西湖 Nishikawa Joken 西川如見 Nitta Tadatsune 仁田忠常 Nita-no-Shirō 仁 田四郎 nobakama 野袴 nōsatsu, osamefuda 納札 nuke mairi 抜け参り numa no yoshiwara oborozukiyo ぬまのよし 原おぼろつきよ nyonin kinsei 女人禁制 Nyoraikyō 如来教 nyūjō 入定 nyūmetsu 入滅 Ōbaku 黄檗 Oda Nobunaga 織田信長 ofuda お札 Ogyū Sorai 荻生徂徠 oharai お祓い ohiraki お開き ōjōden 往生伝 ōjōnin 往生人 Oka Kumaomi 岡熊臣 okage mairi お蔭参り Okamasawa お釜沢 omamori お守り ōmetsuke 大目付

Ōmine 大峰 ominuki 御身抜, お見抜き Ōmiya 大宮 omoteguchi 表口 Ōmoto 大本 Ōmotokyō 大本教 Omuro 御室 oni 鬼 Onmyōdō 陰陽道 onmyōji 陰陽師 Onna chōhōki 女重宝記 Ontake 御嶽 orihon 折本 ōsama わう様 (王様) oshi 御師 Otaifuku ominuki 御大幅御身抜 otogizōshi お伽草子 Ōtsuki 大月 otsutae お伝え oyagokoro 親心 oyakunin-boshi 御役人星 Ōyama 大山 Ōyukiai 大行合 ōzassho 大雑書 qi (J. ki) 氣 reifu 霊符 renga 連歌 Renmonkyō 蓮門教 Rennyo 蓮如 ri 里 rōjū 老中 roku ろく, 禄 rokudō 六道 rokudōsen 六道銭 ruiji shūkyō 類似宗教 ryō 両 Ryūzu 龍頭 Sai no Kawara 賽の河原 saido 済度 saimon 祭文 Saishōji 西正寺 sakaki 榊 sama 様 san 参, 山, 三, 産 San Myōtō Kaisan 参明藤開山 san no hibo さんのひぼ (産の紐)

Glossary  165 Sangoku daiichi 三國第一 Sangoku daiisan 三國第一山 sangoku no shin no aratame-yakunin 三こく のしんのあらため役人 Sangūdō 参宮道 Sangyō Rokuō 参行六王 Itō Ihei 伊藤伊兵 衛; Hanagata Namie 花形浪江 sanjitsu kōkū taisoku 山日大 sankei mandara 参詣曼陀羅 sankin kōtai 参勤交代 sankō no musubi gasshō 三光のむすびがっし ょう (三光の結び合掌) Sanpuku ittai no ominuki 三幅壱対の御身 抜 sanshi 三尸 Sansuke 三助 Sanzon kuson zu 三尊九尊図 saru 申 saru 猿 sashikomori 鎖し籠り satsu, fuda 札 satsu 冊 seichi 聖地 Seigan 星旺 Mori Ihei 森伊兵衛 Seigyō Tokuzan 誓行徳山 Kadokura Seijirō 門倉政四郎; Sachū 佐仲 seimeishugi 生命主義 Seishi 勢至 seken nami Fuji gannin 世間並富士願人 sekisho 関所 Sekimon Shingaku 石門心學 sendatsu 先達 Sengen 仙元, 浅間, 宣元 Sengen Daibosatsu 仙元大菩薩 Senshūin 専修院 Senshūin kakochō 専修院過去帳 Sensōji 浅草寺 Sen’yōin 専養院 setsuwa 説話 setsuyōshū 節用集 shaji sankei mandara 社寺参詣曼陀羅 Shaka 釈迦 Shaka no wari-ishi 釈迦の割石 shaku 勺 shashi 奢侈 Shibata Zeshin 柴田是眞

shide tsue シデ杖 Shikitei Sanba 式亭三馬 shikuwa しくわ Shimai Sōshitsu 島井宗室 shime しめ Shimi no hashira しみのはしら (須弥の柱) shimin no uchi e hairi しみんのうちえはいり (四民の内へ入り) Shimizu Ikutarō 清水幾太郎 shin しん, 心ん shin, tatsu 辰 shinbutsu しん仏 Shingaku 心學 shingan 心願 shingi ihō 新義異法 shingi ishū no kin 新義異宗の禁 shingi iyō no gi 新義異様の儀 shingo 神語 Shingon 真言 Shingyō Sankō 真行三向 shinjin no joshi 信心の女子 shinkō 信仰 shinkō 新興 shinkō shūkyō 新興宗教 shinpu 神符 Shinran 親鸞 shinryo bodai 神慮菩提 shin shinshūkyō 新新宗教 shinshūkyō 新宗教 shintai 神体 Shintainai 新胎内 Shintō Honkyoku 神道本局 Shintoku gohōten no maki 神徳御宝典之巻 Shiraito 白糸 Shiramizu Hiroko 白水寛子 Shōeiji 松栄寺 Shōfukuji 正福寺 Shoge mibungo 生下未分語 Shōgoin 聖護院 Shōgyō Kaizan 照行開山 shōjiki 正直 Shōjin o-ana 精進お穴 shōjinba 精進場 shōjinya 精進や Shōmen Kongō 青面金剛 shomin 庶民

166  Glossary Shosha negi kannushi hatto 諸社禰宜神主 法度 Shōshichi 庄七 Shoshū jiin hatto 諸宗寺院法度 Shōtō Mokuan 性瑫木菴 shugen 修験 Shugendō 修験道 shūji 種子 Shūkai 秀快 shūkyō 宗教 shūkyō ruiji dantai 宗教類似団体 Shungi 舜義 shuto 衆徒 Sōchiku isho 宗竺遺書 Sōchō 宗長 sode 袖 Soga Iga 曹我伊賀 Sōka Gakkai 創価学会 soku 即 soku  sokushin jōbutsu 即身成仏 sokutai 体 sono moto 其元 sōshō shūkyō 創唱宗教 Su Shi 蘇軾 Dongpo 東坡 suijaku 垂迹 suijaku mandara 垂迹曼陀羅 Susano-o すさのお (素戔嗚) suso すそ (裾) Tachibana 橘 tachimachi 立ち待ち taigyō 大行 Taihō 泰宝 Saitō Tazaemon 斉藤太佐衛門 tainai 胎内 tainai kuguri 胎内潜り tainai meguri 胎内巡り Taisei 大清 Yoshida Sōemon 吉田惣右衛門 taisoku 大 Taizōkai 胎蔵界 Takama Denbei 高間伝兵衛 Takamagahara 高天原 Takaosan 高尾山 Taketori monogatari 竹取物語 Takeuchi Naoji 竹内尚次 Takeuchi Yoshimi 竹内好 takiage 焚上げ

Tameyo no sōshi 為世の草子 Tanabe Iga 田邊伊賀 Tanabe Izumi 田邊和泉 Tanabe Jūrōemon 田邊十郎右衛門 Kikuya Toyonori 菊屋豊矩; Hokugyō Kyōgetsu 北行鏡月 Tanaka Sonjūrō 田中孫十郎 tasuke no bosatsu たすけの菩薩 Tateyama 立山 Tateyama mandara 立山曼陀羅 tatsu, shin 辰 ten, te 天 Tenchi Kane 天地金 Tendai 天台 tengu 天狗 tenka 天下 Tenku Raion 天鼓雷音 Tenrikyō 天理教 tenshi 天使 Tenshō Daijingū 天照大神宮 tera-uke 寺請 tōboshi とうぼし Togakushi 戸隠 Togawa Kōchi 外川孝知 Tōkaidō 東海道 Tokugawa Iemitsu 徳川家光 Tokugawa Ienobu 徳川家宣 Tokugawa Ieyasu 徳川家康 Tokugawa Muneharu 徳川宗春 Tokugawa Tsunayoshi 徳川綱吉 Tokugawa Yoshimune 徳川吉宗 Tokutaishi とくたいし ([聖]徳太子) Tomiyama 冨山 Tomiyama Seibei 富山清兵衛 tonaebumi 唱え文 torii 鳥居 Tōyama Shigeki 遠山茂樹 Tōzan 当山 Tsujinobō 辻の坊 Tsukihi 月日 tsukimachi 月待 tsukimizu, gessui 月水 tsukitaoshi つきたおし tsumi 罪 tsūzoku dōtoku 通俗道徳 uchikowashi 打壊し

Glossary  167 ukiyozōshi 浮世草子 Ume 梅 Utagawa Sadahide 歌川貞秀 Hashimoto Gyokuransai橋本玉蘭齊 wa 和, は waka 和歌 Wakutama 湧玉 ware wa fusoku suru 我は不足する Yakubyō hayabiki shiyō やく病はや引仕よう yakusen 役銭 Yakushi Nyorai 薬師如来 yamabushi 山伏 Yamada Junzō 山田準創 Yamagata Taika 山県太華 Yamamoto Shichihei 山本七平 Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu 柳澤吉保 yatagarasu 八咫烏

yōgan jukei 溶岩樹型 Yomi no kuni 黄泉の國 yonaoshi 世直し yorishiro 憑代 Yoshida 吉田 Yoshida Shinto 吉田神道 Yoshino Kiyohito 吉野清人 Yudono 湯殿 yuki 雪 yuki ゆき(裄) yurushi ゆるし, 免し yurushi no maki 免しの巻 zenjō 禅定 zenjō no zu 禅定の図 zokushin 俗信 zushi 厨子

Abbreviations

FYSS: Fujiyoshida-shi shi 富士吉田市史. Shiryō hen 資料編. Edited by Fujiyoshida Shishi Hensan Iinkai. 7 vols. Fujiyoshida-shi: Fujiyoshida-shi, 1992–1998. 2 Kodai chūsei 古代中世. Fujiyoshida-shi: Fujiyoshida-shi, 1992. 3 Kinsei 近世 1. Fujiyoshida-shi: Fujiyoshida-shi, 1994. 4 Kinsei 近世 2. Fujiyoshida-shi: Fujiyoshida-shi, 1994. 5 Kinsei 近世 3. Fujiyoshida-shi: Fujiyoshida-shi, 1997.

NST: Nihon shisō taikei 日本思想体系. Edited by Ienaga Saburō 家永三郎 et al. 67 vols. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1970–1982. 1 Kojiki 古事記. Edited by Aoki Kazuo 青木和夫 et al. 1983. 38 Kinsei seidōron 近世政道論. Edited by Naramoto Tatsuya 奈良本辰 也. 1976. 42 Sekimon Shingaku 石門心学. Edited by Shibata Minoru 柴田実. 1971. 59 Kinsei chōnin shisō. 近世町人思想. Edited by Nakamura Yukihiko 中 村幸彦. 1975. 67 Minshū shūkyō no shisō 民衆宗教の思想. Edited by Murakami Shigeyoshi 村上重良 and Yasumaru Yoshio 安丸良夫. 1971.

SS: Shugendō shōso 修験道章疏. Edited by Nihon Daizōkyō Hensankai 日本大 蔵経編纂会. 3 vols. 1916–1919. Reissued with an supplementary fourth volume (bekkan 別巻) under the title (Fukkoku) Shugendō shōso kaidai (復刻) 修験道章疎解題, edited by Miyake Hitoshi 宮家準 and Nihon Daizōkyō Hensankai 日本大蔵経編纂会. Tokyo: Kokusho Kankōkai, 2000. T: Taishō shinshū daizōkyō 大正新脩大蔵經. Edited by Takakusu Junjirō 高楠順 次郎 and Watanabe Kaigyoku 渡邊海旭. 85 vols. Tokyo: Taishō Issaikyō Kankōkai, 1924–1933.

169

Notes

Introduction 1.  In this book I use “Fujikō” in the singular to refer to the collective of devotional groups dedicated to the worship of Mount Fuji that took shape in the second half of the Edo period. I use “Fuji kō” (taking the plural or singular, as needed) to identify one or more of the localized cells that formed part of this network. The adjectival use of “Fuji,” as in “the Fuji religious movement” or “the Fuji community,” refers specifically to the clusters of practitioners in the early Edo period and/or the members of the later kō who regarded Kakugyō Tōbutsu as their founder. “Fuji devotionalism” (Fuji shinkō), in contrast, is a broad category that connotes reverence for Mount Fuji or its deity in general, of which Fujikō was one organized form. 2.  See the works of the following scholars in particular, listed in the bibliography: Hirano Eiji, Inobe Shigeo, Iwashina Koichirō, Miyazaki Fumiko, Okada Hiroshi, and Ōtani Masayuki. I am particularly indebted to Iwashina Koichirō’s Fujikō no rekishi: Edo shomin no sangaku shinkō (Tokyo: Meichō Shuppan, 1983) and the writings of Miyazaki Fumiko. 3.  For insightful essays on various modern interpretations and appropriations of the mountain, see Andrew Bernstein, “Whose Fuji? Religion, Region, and State in the Fight for a National Symbol,” Monumenta Nipponica 63, no. 1 (2006): 51–91; and Andrew Bernstein, “Weathering Fuji: Marriage, Meteorology, and the Meiji Bodyscape,” in Japan at Nature’s Edge: The Environmental Context of a Global Power, ed. Brett L. Walker, Julia Adeney, and Ian J. Miller (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2013). For late Edo and early Meiji religious developments, see Martin Collcutt, “Mount Fuji as the Realm of Miroku: The Transformation of Maitreya in the Cult of Mount Fuji in Early Modern Japan,” in Maitreya, the Future Buddha, ed. Alan Sponberg and Helen Hardacre (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 248–269; Janine Sawada, “Mind and Morality in NineteenthCentury Japanese Religions: Misogi-kyō and Maruyama-kyō,” Philosophy East and West 48, no. 1 (Jan. 1998): 108–141; and Janine Tasca Sawada, “Sexual Relations as Religious Practice in the Late Tokugawa Period: Fujidō,” Journal of Japanese Studies 32, no. 2 (Summer 2006): 341–366. Royall Tyler reaches further back in his “The Tokugawa Peace and Popular Religion: Suzuki Shōsan, Kakugyō Tōbutsu Kū, and Jikigyō Miroku,” in Confucianism and Tokugawa Culture, ed. Peter Nosco (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984), 92– 119; and especially in his excellent “ ‘ The Book of the Great Practice’: The Life of the Mt. Fuji Ascetic Kakugyō Tōbutsu: Introduction and Translation,” Asian Folklore Studies 52 (1993): 251–283. The lengthiest recent treatment in English of the history of Fuji devotionalism as a whole is H. Byron Earhart’s Mount Fuji: Icon of Japan (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2011), esp. parts 2 and 4.

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Notes to Pages 2–3

4.  Suzuki Shōei, “Fuji Ontake to Chūbu reizan,” in Suzuki Shōei, ed., Fuji Ontake to Chūbu reizan (1978; repr., Tokyo: Meitoku Shuppan, 2000), 21–22. 5.  In English, I have in mind especially Sarah Thal, Rearranging the Landscape of the Gods: The Politics of a Pilgrimage Site in Japan, 1573–1912 (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago, 2005); and Barbara Ambros, Emplacing Pilgrimage: The Ōyama Cult and Regional Religion in Early Modern Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008). Both monographs are distinguished by broad chronological coverage combined with detailed institutional and (in the former case) political contextualization. Regarding the development of practices centered on Ise and its deities, see Mark Teeuwen and John Breen, A Social History of the Ise Shrines: Divine Capital (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2017). Noteworthy studies of mountain pilgrimage in early to medieval Japan include D. Max Moerman, Localizing Paradise: Kumano Pilgrimage and the Religious Landscape of Premodern Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2005); Heather Blair, Real and Imagined: The Peak of Gold in Heian Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2015); and Anna Andreeva, Assembling Shinto: Buddhist Approaches to Kami Worship in Medieval Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2018), which focuses on Buddhist-Shinto practices associated with Mount Miwa. See also Allan G. Grapard’s Mountain Mandalas: Shugendō in Kyushu (London: Bloomsbury, 2016). 6.  Kanda Hideo speaks in similar terms of Nyoraikyō, which originated in 1802 and is often considered the first Japanese new religion; Kanda Hideo, Nyoraikyō no seiritsu tenkai to shiteki kiban: Edo kōki no shakai to shūkyō (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2017), 307. 7.  Shimazono Susumu, “Shinshūkyō no hassei jiki,” in Shinshūkyō jiten, ed. Inoue Nobutaka et al. (Tokyo: Kōbundō, 1990), 8b. 8.  For analyses of the Japanese construction of “religion,” see, e.g., James E. Ketelaar, Of Heretics and Martyrs: Buddhism and Its Persecution (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990), esp. 87–135; Jason Ānanda Josephson, The Invention of Religion in Japan (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2012); Isomae Jun’ichi, Religious Discourse in Modern Japan: Religion, State, and Shintō (Leiden: Brill, 2014); Hoshino Seiji, Kindai Nihon no shūkyō gainen: Shūkyōsha no kotoba to kindai (Tokyo: Yūshisha, 2012); and Trent Maxey, The “Greatest Problem”: Religion and State Formation in Meiji Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2014). 9.  Given these parameters, these groups are not ordinarily treated in Japanese academic writing under the rubric of “folk religion” (minzoku shūkyō or, in earlier usage, minkan shinkō), although it is generally acknowledged that informal religious customs and forms of devotion constituted the cultural and ritual matrices from which the minshū shūkyō drew. For a discussion of the meaning of “folk religion” in the Japanese context, see Ian Reader, “Folk Religion,” in Nanzan Guide to Japanese Religions, ed. Paul L. Swanson and Clark Chilson (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2006), 65–90; and Shinno Toshikazu’s seminal discussion of evolving approaches to the study of “popular” or “folk” religion among twentieth-century Japanese scholars and the concomitant shift in usage in the field from “minkan shinkō” to “minzoku shūkyō” in his “From Minkan-shinkō to Minzoku-shūkyō: Reflections on the Study of Folk Buddhism,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 20, no. 2‑3 (1993): 187–206. The development of folk studies in late nineteenth- and early twentiethcentury Japan suggests intriguing contrasts and parallels to the evolution of the people’s history approach to the study of nonestablished religious groups. For an excellent and readable account of the foundational minzokugaku figures and their accomplishments, see Alan S.

Notes to Pages 4–5

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Christy, A Discipline on Foot: Inventing Japanese Native Ethnography, 1910–1945 (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2012). 10.  Shimazono Susumu points out that before 1945 “shinkō shūkyō” (which was later used in a derogatory fashion) often had a value-neutral or even positive, self-promotional connotation; “Shinshūkyō o sasu yōgo,” in Shinshūkyō jiten, 2a–5a, 3b–c. See also Trevor Astley, “New Religions,” in Nanzan Guide to Japanese Religions, ed. Paul L. Swanson and Clark Chilson (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2006), 94, regarding the usage history of the two terms. 11.  Ian Reader and Erica Baffelli make a similar point in their lucid discussion of the ambivalence embedded in the term “new religion,” in Dynamism and the Ageing of a Japanese “New” Religion: Transformations and the Founder (London: Bloomsbury, 2019), 13–18. 12.  Gordon Melton, “An Introduction to the New Religions,” in The Oxford Handbook of New Religious Movements, ed. James R. Lewis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 25. 13.  Melton, “Introduction,” 21. See also Gordon Melton, “Toward a Definition of ‘New Religion,’ ” Nova Religio 8, no. 1 (July 2004): 72–87. Eileen Barker responds critically to Melton’s view in “What Are We Studying? A Sociological Case for Keeping the ‘Nova,’ ” Nova Religio 8, no. 1 (July 2004): 88–102. See, however, Ian Reader’s further intervention in the debate over “newness” in his “Chronological Commonalities and Alternative Status in Japanese New Religious Movements: Defining New Religious Movements Outside the Western Cul-deSac,” Nova Religio 9, no. 2 (2005): 84–96. 14.  In effect, the term designated temples and shrines of which the domain government did not approve; see Katsurajima Nobuhiro, Bakumatsu minshū shūkyō no kenkyū: Bakumatsu Kokugaku to minshū shūkyō (Kyoto: Bunrikaku, 1992), 86. 15.  The Chōshū debate over deviant or suspect rituals (inshi ronsō) took the form of a series of polemical essays, including, e.g., “Reflections on Suspicious Rituals” (Inshikō) and “Discussion of Suspicious Rituals” (Inshiron), authored by, respectively, the Confucian scholar Yamagata Taika (1781–1866), and the Kokugaku scholar Kondō Yoshiki (1801–1880). The nativist Oka Kumaomi (1783–1851) argued for his part that nature shrines and informal practices associated with native objects of reverence (tengu, dual Shinto deities, spirit animals) were not in fact perverted forms of worship, and that the charge of inshi against them stemmed from the worthless views of “rotten Confucians.” Katsurajima, Bakumatsu, 87–89. The debate took place during the tenure of Murata Kiyokaze (1783–1855), when the domain sought to suppress certain forms of religious activity, notably Buddhism. See Martin Collcutt, “Buddhism: The Threat of Eradication,” in Japan in Transition from Tokugawa to Meiji, ed. Marius B. Jansen and Gilbert Rozman (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1986), 149– 150. Katsurajima reflects further on the meaning of inshi in his “Meishin, inshi, jakyō,” in Tasha to kyōkai, ed. Shimazono Susumu et al. (Tokyo: Shunjūsha, 2015), esp. 244–249, again with reference to the Chōshū anti-inshi campaign. 16.  The last rubric is frequently used as a modifier in Edo city ordinances, as in iyō no gi, iyō no gaku, iyō no tonaegoto, and shingi iyō no gi. See Edo machibure shūsei, ed. Harashima Yōichi and Kinsei Shiryō Kenkyūkai, 20 vols. (Tōkyo: Hanawa Shobō, 1994–1996), 5:128b, nos. 6632, 6633; 10:9, no. 10179; 10:12, no. 10182; 11:48, no. 11111; 11:356–357, no. 11645; 14:20b, no. 13478; 15:445–447, no. 14942. 17.  See Josephson’s Invention of Religion, 30, and passim in chapter 1; and also Ketelaar’s earlier substantive discussion of “heresy” in the nineteenth-century Japanese context, in his Of Heretics and Martyrs, esp. 43–86.

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Notes to Pages 5–6

18.  Katsurajima argues that both Konkōkyō and Tenrikyō attempted to fend off the charge of inshi jakyō by “modernizing” to cohere with the bunmei kaika ideology of the time—organizationally through assimilation into sect Shinto and doctrinally by revising specific ideas (such as the concept of deity). For a summary statement, see Katsurajima’s Bakumatsu, 203. For the related campaign against Renmonkyō, see Janine Tasca Sawada, Practical Pursuits: Religion, Politics, and Personal Cultivation in Nineteenth-Century Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2004), 236–258. 19.  Murakami Shigeyoshi, Nihon shūkyō jiten (1988; repr., Tokyo: Kodansha, 1993), 393b. 20.  Astley, “New Religions,” 94. The modifier “newly arisen” (shinkō) was used widely at the time to derogate the sundry new-fangled cultural phenomena that proliferated after the war. 21.  The late twentieth-century rubric, “new new religions” (shin shinshūkyō), e.g., arguably also camouflaged a certain collective anxiety about religious novelty. The phrase is believed to date to Nishiyama Shigeru’s usage in his 1979 “Shin shinshūkyō no shutsugen: ‘Datsu kindaika’ ni muketa ishiki gendō no shiza kara,” in Shūkyō: Rīdingsu Nihon no shakaigaku, ed. Miyake Hitoshi, Kōmoto Mitsugi, and Nishiyama Shigeru, rev. ed. (Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai, 1986), 202–204. For a recent discussion of this term, see Reader and Baffelli, Dynamism, 12. On the face of it, the reduplicate “new new” simply indicates that these groups appeared in a chronologically more recent period, or that they incorporated another layer of socioreligious innovation. But the less than positive associations of “new new” are suggested by scholars’ characterizations of the post-1980s religions in terms that are not routinely applied to the more established groups: millenarian or apocalyptic tendencies; magical or mystical practices; and in some cases the prioritizing of individual esoteric practices over prevailing social mores. To identify these suspect features as defining elements of the latest new religions implies that they were and are uncommon in more established religious communities in Japan, which is manifestly untrue. For so-called magical and mystical elements in Japanese religious life, see, e.g., Ian Reader and George Tanabe, Practically Religious: Worldly Benefits and the Common Religion of Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1998), 126–136, or 71–106 passim; or for millenarian thinking in, e.g., medieval Japanese Buddhism, see the work of Jacqueline I. Stone, “Japanese Lotus Millenialism: From Militant Nationalism to Contemporary Peace Movements,” in Millenialism, Persecution, and Violence: Historical Cases, ed. Catherine Wessinger (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2000), 261–280. 22.  In some circles in Japanese society today aru shūkyō dantai (“a certain religious organization”) is code for the new religion, Sōka Gakkai. See Levi McLaughlin, “Did Aum Change Everything? What Soka Gakkai before, during, and after the Aum Shinrikyō Affair Tells Us about the Persistent ‘Otherness’ of New Religions in Japan,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 39, no. 1 (2012): 64. 23.  Many twentieth-century studies of the Japanese new religions classify them based on their period of origin, but as Astley suggests, these taxonomies have mostly heuristic value; “New Religions,” 95–96. The view that the new religions date from the late Edo period at the earliest is common in influential reference works and surveys published in the last few decades (though in some cases the Tokugawa movements are characterized as “forerunners” or “sources” of the Meiji new religions). A sampling might include Inoue Nobutaka et al., eds., Shinshūkyō kenkyū chosa handobukku (Tokyo: Yūzankaku, 1981); Matsuno Junkō, Shinshūkyō jiten (Tokyo: Tōkyōdō, 1984); H. Byron Earhart, comp., The New Religions of Japan: A Bibliography of Western-Language Materials, 2nd ed. (Ann Arbor: Center for Japanese Studies,

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University of Michigan, 1983); Murakami Shigeyoshi, Nihon shūkyō jiten, esp. 393; Helen Hardacre, “The New Religions,” in Sources of Japanese Tradition, ed. Wm. Theodore de Bary et al., 2nd ed. (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005), 2:1117–1118; Robert S. Ellwood and Shimazono Susumu, “New Religious Movements in Japan,” in The Encyclopedia of Religion, ed. Lindsay Jones, 2nd ed. (Detroit, MI: MacMillan Reference USA, 2005), 10:6572–6575. 24.  Some writers assert that the first non-Japanese studies of these groups called them “new religions” by way of rendering the Japanese phrase shinshūkyō, coined earlier by Japanese social scientists. James R. Lewis, “Overview,” in The Oxford Handbook of New Religious Movements, ed. James R. Lewis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 3; and Melton, “Introduction,” 19. Neither Lewis nor Melton provides a source for this claim. 25.  Clark B. Offner and Henry Van Straelen, Modern Japanese Religions, with Special Emphasis on Their Doctrines of Healing (New York: Twayne, 1963). See also Harry Thomsen, The New Religions of Japan (Tokyo: Charles E. Tuttle, 1963). 26.  H. Neill McFarland, The Rush Hour of the Gods: A Study of New Religious Movements in Japan (New York: The MacMillan Group, 1967), 39. 27.  McFarland, Rush Hour, 11–13. McFarland defines new religions as “contemporary popular religious movements,” where “popular” refers to those of “lower middle-class” income or below, and/or to “folk faith” (minkan shinkō); McFarland, Rush Hour, 8, 9. 28.  Following Edwin O. Reischauer, McFarland nonetheless took a dim view of the political agency of the Japanese under Tokugawa rule: “The Japanese masses were not very politically conscious, they probably cared little whether their ruler was the shogun or the Emperor.” McFarland, Rush Hour, 46. 29.  McFarland, Rush Hour, 54, xiii. 30.  He cites, for example, Murakami Shigeyoshi, “Shinkoku Nippon seisuishi: Gendai shinkō shūkyō no saihakken,” Taiyō 15 (Sept. 1964): 149–153; and Oguchi Iichi and Takagi Hiroo, “Religion and Social Development,” in Japanese Religion in the Meiji Era, ed. Kishimoto Hideo (Tokyo: Ōbunsha, 1956), 313–357. 31.  Many scholars of religion today studiously avoid using “popular religion” in order to preclude a binary contrast with “elite religion.” “Vernacular religion” is a possible alternative. Reader and Tanabe have suggested using “common religion” as a substitute; see their Practically Religious, 23–32. In this book I use “popular religion” to refer to religious ideas and practices that took root among, or were cultivated by, people who were not clergy or other authorized representatives of established religious institutions, schools, or sects, regardless of their social class or rank. 32.  Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, Routledge Classics (London: Routledge, 2001), e.g., 61, 67, 100, 108. 33.  Wolfgang Schwentker, “The Spirit of Modernity: Max Weber’s Protestant Ethic and Japanese Social Sciences,” Journal of Classical Sociology 5, no. 1 (2005): 75. For a perceptive account of Weberian ideas about religion in Japan, in particular, see Hayashi Makoto, “The Adaptation of Max Weber’s Theories of Religion in Japan,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 20, no. 2–3 (1993): 207–228. 34.  Naitō Kanji, “Shūkyō to keizai rinri—Jōdo Shinshū to Ōmi shōnin,” Shakaigaku 8 (1941): 243–286. See also Schwentker, “Spirit of Modernity,” 82 (although Schwentker disconcertingly follows Robert N. Bellah’s oversimplified account [see note 41 below], according to which True Pure Land Buddhism “went further than any other Buddhist sect in the direction of freeing religion from magic or shamanistic rituals”).

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35.  Schwentker, “Spirit of Modernity,” 83; also J. Victor Koschmann, Revolution and Subjectivity in Postwar Japan (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 152. 36.  Koschmann, Revolution and Subjectivity, 154, 156. Ōtsuka and like-minded Japanese scholars accordingly conducted extensive studies of European history, always with an eye to reevaluating their own country’s progress along these lines. “Japanese modernity,” Sebastian Conrad observes, “was the hidden agenda of the Ōtsuka school’s studies of Europe.” Sebastian Conrad, “What Time Is Japan? Problems of Comparative (Intercultural) Historiography,” History and Theory 38, no. 1 (Feb. 1999): 71. 37.  I am following Koschmann, Revolution and Subjectivity, 160–161, who draws on Ōtsuka’s 1946 “Jiyū to dokuritsu”; see also Conrad, “What Time Is Japan?,” 72. Ōtsuka attributed the Japanese peasants’ deficiencies to the ethos of parental concern (oyagokoro) that he took to be the prevalent Japanese social model: “Those above us in a leadership capacity are supposed to have the authority of parents. The people, or those ‘below,’ must be obedient to this authority.” Cited and translated by Koschmann, Revolution and Subjectivity, 160. Ōtsuka had assimilated the underlying Orientalist premise of the German thinkers (not only Weber but also Hegel and Marx) that Asian societies had been held back by an ethic that amounted to “outer values” informed by an aesthetic concern to “save face” rather than an inner, personal sense of morality. Koschmann, Revolution and Subjectivity, 165–166. 38.  Maruyama had attributed the Japanese failure to generate politically responsible subjects and to embrace the ideals of freedom and equality to the inhibiting influence of Confucian values in the Tokugawa period, although he allowed that selected early modern thinkers (Ogyū Sorai [1666–1728] and the Kokugaku scholars) may have contributed to a conception of freedom in the Hobbesian sense of freedom from externally imposed political or moral constraints. See Kinugasa Yasuki, “Kinsei shisōshi kenkyū no yonjūnen,” in Kinsei shisōshi kenkyū no genzai, ed. Kinugasa Yasuki (Kyoto: Shibunkaku, 1995), 492–493; and Koschmann, Revolution and Subjectivity, 172–173, 178–179. 39.  Kinugasa, “Kinsei shisōshi,” 493. 40.  See Carol Gluck, “The People in History: Recent Trends in Japanese Historiography,” Journal of Asian Studies 38, no. 1 (Nov. 1978): 25. Koschmann cites several examples of the shift in thinking about modernization that took place after the war: Shimizu Ikutarō, a leading figure in the postwar pacifist movement, observed that “despite the series of incidents that separate them, the shomin [masses] who appeared in Tokugawa period documents and the shomin of today have a surprising amount in common.” The historian Tōyama Shigeki called for scholars to “bring out the revolutionary tradition that sprang from the grassroots” (trans. Koschmann, Revolution and Subjectivity, 219 and 221, respectively); Ishimoda Shō of the Marxist Historical Research Association urged that contemporary debates be reframed in light of premodern historical contexts in which ordinary people had resisted domination; Takeuchi Yoshimi, associated with the noncommunist left, was also unhappy with the modernization proponents’ tendency to ignore the role of regular people in their studies (Koschmann, Revolution and Subjectivity, 220, 9, 203–204). 41.  Hayashi, “Adaptation of Max Weber’s Theories,” 291. Robert N. Bellah’s attempt to adapt Weberian theory to the Japanese case in his Tokugawa Religion: The Values of PreIndustrial Japan (New York: Free Press, 1957) was soon criticized as inadequate to the complexity of the intellectual, socioeconomic, and political processes involved in Japanese modernization, especially given the disastrous effects of these processes in World War II. See Maruyama Masao’s trenchant review, “Berā no Tokugawa jidai no shūkyō (1957),” Kokka

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gakkai zasshi 72, no. 4 (Apr. 1958): 95–116; and for a brief summary of the debate, Janine Anderson Sawada, Confucian Values and Popular Zen: Sekimon Shingaku in EighteenthCentury Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1993), 5–6. For other postwar applications of Weber’s ideas to Japan, see Schwentker, “Spirit of Modernity,” esp. 84–85. Nakamura Hajime also made a Weberian intervention in his “Suzuki Shōsan, 1579–1655 and the Spirit of Capitalism in Japanese Buddhism,” trans. William Johnston, Monumenta Nipponica 22, no. 1–2 (1967): 1–14. 42.  Hayashi identifies Yasumaru Yoshio, Yamamoto Shichihei, and Shimazono Susumu as scholars who were critical of Weberian theory but nonetheless argued from various disciplinary perspectives for the importance of ethical ideas in Japanese modernization; Hayashi, “Adaptation of Max Weber’s Theories,” 219–223, 225. 43.  The term “minshū” (rather than “ jinmin” or “shomin”) was ultimately adopted because it had “the connotation of popular action and the possibility of the people’s ‘moving history from below.’ ” Gluck, “People in History,” 32. For a reassessment of the nuances of “minshū” from the perspective of the history of Buddhist thought, see Ōkuwa Hitoshi, Nihon Bukkyō no kinsei (Kyoto: Hōzōkan, 2003), 201–204. 44.  See Murakami Shigeyoshi, “Bakumatsu ishinki no minshū shūkyō ni tsuite,” in Nihon shisō taikei (hereafter NST), 67 vols. (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1970–1982) 67:563–570. Representative studies of popular thought and religion that appeared from the 1960s through the 1980s include, among others, Murakami Shigeyoshi and Yasumaru Yoshio’s annotated anthology of primary texts Minshū shūkyō no shisō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1971), in NST 67; the works of Kano Masanao, notably Shihon shugi keiseiki no chitsujo ishiki (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1969); Yasumaru Yoshio’s Nihon no kindaika to minshū shisō (Tokyo: Aoki Shoten, 1974) and his Deguchi Nao (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha, 1977); Hirota Masaki’s Bunmei kaika to minshū ishiki (Tokyo: Aoki Shoten, 1980); and Kozawa Hiroshi’s Ikigami no shisōshi: Nihon no kindaika to minshū shūkyō (1988; repr., Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2010). The religious groups highlighted by the minshū historians most often included Tenrikyō, Konkōkyō, Kurozumikyō, Maruyamakyō, Renmonkyō, and Ōmotokyō. 45.  Examples of 1930s kyōha Shintō scholarship include Nakayama Keiichi, Kyōha Shintō no hassei katei (Tokyo: Moriyama Shoten, 1932), discussed below; Tsurufuji Ikuta, Kyōha Shintō no kenkyū (Osaka: Taikōsha, 1939); and Tanaka Yoshitō, Kyōha Shintō jūsanpa no kenkyū (1932–1935; repr., Tokyo: Daiichi Shobō, 1987). 46.  Shimazono, “Shinshūkyō o sasu yōgo,” 3–4. According to Shimazono, Murakami Shigeyoshi, for example, had drawn on the prewar sect–Shinto research of Nakayama Keiichi, Yoshino Kiyohito, and Tsurufuji Ikuta; Shimazono Susumu, “Minshū shūkyō ka, shinshūkyō ka: Futatsu no tachiba no tōgō ni mukete,” in Edo no shisō 1: Kyūsai to shinkō, ed. Edo no shisō henshū iinkai (Tokyo: Perikansha, 1995), 162b. Murakami Shigeyoshi (discussed below) clearly distinguished the people’s religions from the new religions, but asserted that the former greatly influenced the latter in terms of methods, teachings, and organizational activities. See his Kindai minshū shūkyōshi no kenkyū (1958; rev. ed., Kyoto: Hōzōkan, 1972), 5, and his “Bakumatsu ishinki,” NST 67: 568. 47.  Today Japanese scholars characterize the nature and chronology of the people’s religions and the new religions based mostly on their disciplinary and historiographical orientations, but many still reserve the phrase “minshū shūkyō” for movements that first emerged in the nineteenth century and that in their view demonstrated sentiments of opposition or at least independence vis-à-vis the controlling order, while relegating groups that arose after the

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solidification of the imperial state to the category of newly arisen or new religions. The premise of the minshū scholars was that the religions of the people arose until the mid-Taishō era, whereas the newly arisen religions dated from after that time. Following this usage, Ōmotokyō, founded in 1892, was the final example of a people’s religion. However, the distinction between the two types of modern religion has never been strict—some writers use both terms interchangeably or simply couple them. I am indebted to Shimazono’s historiographical essays for these observations; see especially his “Minshū shūkyō ka” and “Shinshūkyō o sasu yōgo;” as well as his Gendai shūkyōron (Tokyo: Seikyūsha, 1992), esp. 31–37. 48.  Kanda Hideo, “Kokuminteki tōgō to minshū shūkyō,” in Kinsei shisōshi kenkyū no genzai, ed. Kinugasa Yasuki (Kyoto: Shibunkaku, 1995), 381. Murakami Shigeyoshi’s Kindai minshū shūkyōshi no kenkyū was reprinted several times, beginning in 1963 with slight revisions and an added chapter on Tenrikyo; the 1972 edition contains additional revisions. Citations here refer to the 1972 edition published by Hōzōkan. 49.  “Founded religions” is my rendition of sōshō shūkyō. See Murakami Shigeyoshi, “Bakumatsu ishinki,” NST 67: 568. In a still later work, Murakami expresses the same view but includes Nyoraikyō and Honmon Butsuryūshū as well; Murakami Shigeyoshi, Nihon shūkyō jiten, 393b. 50.  Murakami Shigeyoshi, “Bakumatsu ishinki,” NST 67: 568–569. Murakami acknowledges that Nyoraikyō was exceptional in its less than positive view of this world and its emphasis on salvation in the next; with regard to social thought, he cites especially Tenrikyō and Konkōkyō for their stress on equality of class, rank, and gender. 51.  Murakami Shigeyoshi, Kindai minshū, 18. 52.  Murakami Shigeyoshi, Kindai minshū, 14. In Japan the word “majinai” (ju) was originally informed by a notion of verbal petitions directed to deities or spiritually potent forces; in the Buddhist context the derivative compound “ jumon” designated short prayer-texts, dhāraṇī or sutra excerpts that were recited in order to expel noxious influences. In modern Japanese dictionaries “majinai” is defined as the act of either removing or inflicting illness or misfortune by drawing on the power of kami, buddhas, or other spiritual forces. In all these contexts the word connotes a type of speech that is thought to effect change through its sound as well as its content. The usage history of this term in East Asia suggests that from the outset it was understood as a regular component of religious life rather than as a distinct practice set off from religion, as magic has been imagined in the West. The routine translation of “majinai” into English as “incantation” or “spell,” and “ jujutsu” (literally, the art of majinai) as “magic” nonetheless carries over the old division between magic and religion, which impedes a more fluid understanding of these spheres of human activity in the East Asian context. In this book I generally avoid using the English word “magic” and its derivatives (whether as a translation or otherwise) except when citing or paraphrasing others. 53.  Murakami Shigeyoshi, “Bakumatsu ishinki,” NST 67: 569. 54.  An English-language interpretation of the ee ja nai ka phenomenon along these lines may be found in George Wilson’s Patriots and Redeemers in Japan (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 95–117. A possible rendering of eejanaika is “ain’t it great!?” It was a sort of rallying cry reportedly heard at several exuberant gatherings in the mid-nineteenth century. For an insightful reappraisal of the role of religion in the yonaoshi phenomenon as a whole, including the eejanaika episodes, see Takashi Miura, Agents of World Renewal: The Rise of Yonaoshi Gods in Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2019). 55.  Murakami Shigeyoshi, Kindai minshū, 28.

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56.  Ultimately Murakami concluded that minshū shūkyō fell into two types. One aimed to actualize its religious vision of an ideal world through political and social change (“world renewal”), while the other stressed a more internally oriented life of faith. But all, in his view, were critical of so-called feudal religion and headed in a modern religious direction. Murakami Shigeyoshi, “Bakumatsu ishinki,” NST 67: 570. 57.  See, e.g., Murakami Shigeyoshi, Kindai minshū, e.g., 25–26, 27, 33. Murakami later allowed that the foundation for the Bakumatsu religious groupings and episodic gatherings may have been laid in the late medieval and early Edo periods, but as he notes in his commentary to the Minshū shūkyō no shisō anthology, the groups represented in the volume were selected because they originated during the “revolutionary” period that spanned the dissolution of the shogunate and the establishment of the new imperial state, and because they were indigenous movements rooted in the lives of ordinary Japanese people. Murakami Shigeyoshi, “Bakumatsu ishinki,” in NST 67: 564, 565. 58.  Royall Tyler, Miyazaki Fumiko, and Ōtani Masayuki have all tentatively characterized Fujikō as a new religion (Miyazaki especially with reference to the movement’s later phase). See Tyler, “Tokugawa Peace,” 101–102; Miyazaki Fumiko, “The Formation of Emperor Worship in the New Religions: The Case of Fujidō,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 17, no. 2–3 (1990): 281–314 passim (esp. 283–284 for a useful list of similarities between the new religions and the Jikigyō Miroku branch of the Fuji movement); Miyazaki Fumiko, “Networks of Believers in a New Religion: Female Devotees of Fujidō,” in Women and Networks in Nineteenth-Century Japan, ed. Bettina Gramlich-Oka et al. (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2020), 146; and Ōtani Masayuki, “Fuji shinkō kara Kakugyō-kei shūkyō e— karera wa ‘shinshūkyō’ ka ina ka,” Shūkyō kenkyū 78, no. 1 (June 2004): 111–114. 59.  The post-Fujikō Shinto sects are Jikkōkyō and Fusōkyō; for a time Fusōkyō also included the Maruyama group, but the latter switched affiliation to Shintō Honkyoku in 1885. It should be noted that Inobe Shigeo’s Fuji no shinkō (Tokyo: Kokon Shoin, 1928), an important source for many later studies of Fujikō, is not closely associated with the prewar Shinto scholarship. 60.  Nakayama, Kyōha Shintō, 33. 61.  Nakayama, Kyōha Shintō, 36–37. 62.  Nakayama acknowledges that Kakugyō generated only a few fundamental ideas (viz., that Mount Fuji was the origin of the universe, the source of all things, and that belief in the deity would bring world peace and national stability), but emphasizes that the founder’s successor, Nichigyō Nichigan, set out three axioms for the group: (i) When you do good, it is good. When you do evil, it is evil; (ii) If you strive earnestly, you will be fortunate, free of illness and long-lived; (iii) If you slack off, you will become poor, contract illness, and live a short life. Nakayama, Kyōha Shintō, 39–40. A short piece attributed to Kakugyō, titled Hibi no kokoro-e, contains a more detailed list of moral admonitions; it is transcribed by Iwashina in his Fujikō no rekishi, 64–66. 63.  Nakayama, Kyōha Shintō, 43. 64.  Nakayama, Kyōha Shintō, 41–42. The author attributes the practice of these rituals in the Fuji movement to its putative Shugendō-influenced origins, although we have little evidence of direct connections. 65.  Regarding Fujidō’s distinctive view of ritual practices in comparison with other Fuji devotional groups of the time, see Miyazaki Fumiko, “Kinseimatsu no minshū shūkyō— Fujidō no shisō to kōdō,” Nihon rekishi 344 (Jan. 1977): 108.

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66.  See Nakayama, Kyōha Shintō, 46. The prominent scholar of sect Shinto, Tanaka Yoshitō, claims along similar lines that “Jikkōkyō’s rejection of kaji kitō is truly based on the [Fujidō founding figure, Itō] Sangyō.” Tanaka Yoshitō, Shintō Jikkōkyō no kenkyū (Tokyo: Nihon Gakujutsu Kenkyūkai, 1939), 29. We should bear in mind that prewar sect Shinto scholars necessarily depended on denominational archives, and in this case Jikkōkyō materials may well have inspired portions of these accounts. 67.  Twentieth-century scholars of Shugendō for their part have similarly characterized prayer rituals as secondary in importance to individual ascetic feats, suggesting that the yama­ bushi’s increasing engagement in these services in the Edo period contributed to the deterio­ ration of their religious life. E.g., Miyamoto Kesao, “Fuju,” in Shugendō shōso kaidai, ed. Miyake Hitoshi and Nihon Daizōkyō Hensankai (Tokyo: Kokusho Kankōkai, 2000), SS 4:87b. However, the expansion of healing and apotropaic rituals (and the associated distribution of talismans) in the Edo period was related to a wide range of factors, including, among others, improvements in transportation and communication, the rising demand for health care, and, perhaps most importantly, the religion policies of the Tokugawa shogunate, which powerfully affected the mobility and livelihood of ritual professionals (a point to which we will return in later chapters). The decrease in mountain austerities in the Tokugawa period was not simply a matter of stagnation in, or retrogression to, a postmedieval magical ethos. 68.  Anesaki Masaharu’s oft-cited remark in a 1913 lecture at Harvard is probably representative of his generation of intellectuals. In his later book (based on the lecture series) he describes the Shugendō practitioners as “men of lower caste representing the crude side of religion” who “exercised a great influence upon the people by appealing directly to vulgar ideas and superstitions.” Anesaki Masaharu, History of Japanese Religion, with Special Reference to the Social and Moral Life of the Nation (1930; repr., Rutland, VT: Tuttle, 1963), 139. The comment is a slightly moderated version of the one in the 1930 edition of the book (and presumably in the original lecture); cited by Gaynor Sekimori and D. Max Moerman, introduction to Shugendō: The History and Culture of a Japanese Religion, ed. Bernard Faure, D. Max Moerman, and Gaynor Sekimori, special issue, Cahiers d’Extrême-Asie 18 (2009): 2. Frank Clements highlights recent scholarly attempts to revise the negative image of early modern Shugendō in his “The Fall Peak, Professional Culture, and Document Production in Early Modern Haguro Shugendo,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 46, no. 2 (2019): 223; and George Klonos discusses the related problematic implications of studying Shugendō from the perspective of folk religion in his “The Robe of Leaves: A Nineteenth-Century Text of Shugendo Apologetics,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 46, no. 1 (2019), esp. 105– 109. The debate over the scope of the term “Shugendō” is closely related to this vexed historiography of mountain practice in Japan. The term is sometimes used almost generically to indicate, as above, an amorphous kind of folk religion, or exorcistic and other ritual services offered by professed mountain practitioners. In other contexts the word denotes the formal denominations designated by the Tokugawa shogunate, viz., the Honzan, Tōzan, and/or other recognized lines of mountain ascetic practice. On the problem of defining Shugendō and related historiographical issues, see Gaynor Sekimori, “Defining Shugendō Past and Present: The ‘Restoration’ of Shugendō at Nikkō and Koshikidake,” in Faure, Moerman, and Sekimori, “Shugendō,” 47–71; as well as Sekimori, “Shugendō: Japanese Mountain Religion— State of the Field and Bibliographic Review,” Religion Compass 3, no. 1 (2009): 31–57. 69.  See, e.g., Endō Hideo, “Fuji shinkō no seiritsu to Murayama Shugen,” in Suzuki Shōei, Fuji, 56. Okada Hiroshi, a lifelong student of Fujidō, also suggests that magical practices in the

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seventeenth-century Fuji religious community were the residue of the ritual culture spread by Shugendō practitioners and/or Sengen shrine personnel (oshi). See his “Fujikō to jujutsu,” in Hirano Eiji, ed., Fuji Sengen shinkō (Tokyo: Yūzankaku, 1987), 202. 70.  Murakami Shigeyoshi, Kindai minshū, 43. 71.  Murakami Shigeyoshi, Kindai minshū, 54–55. 72.  Miyazaki Fumiko’s several works on Fujidō listed in the bibliography are the best analyses of its leaders’ ideas and activities. On the Maruyama movement, see Yasumaru Yoshio, Nihon no kindaika, 87–14; and, for a discussion in English, J. A. Sawada, “Mind and Morality.” 73.  In Murakami’s judgment, Jikigyō was not in fact a genuine forerunner of the protorevolutionary movements of the nineteenth century because the Fuji leader allegedly disapproved of popular political agitation and upheld the feudal control system. Murakami Shigeyoshi, Kindai minshū, 60. The thrust of Murakami’s interpretation is not borne out by a careful reading of Jikigyō’s writings, however, especially Osoegaki no maki, in which the Fuji ascetic sharply criticizes the government and its policies (discussed in chapter 5). 74.  Murakami Shigeyoshi, Kindai minshū, 77n4. Murakami acknowledged that most Fuji groups continued to engage in what he called “Shugendō-like, dual Shinto-like magic and prayer rituals” into the late Tokugawa period, but he argued that the movement would not have survived, much less spread, by relying only on this “yamabushi-type” magic. Murakami Shigeyoshi, Kindai minshū, 67. He was well aware that Fujikō in general, not only the purportedly less magical Fujidō branch of the network, survived and expanded during the late Tokugawa period. One well-known anecdote has it that by the Tenpō era (1831–1845), Edo boasted 808 Fuji kō. Murakami also pointed out that the Fujidō-Jikkōkyō line was better organized internally than the other Fuji groups, but his central emphasis was the shift away from magical practices; Murakami Shigeyoshi, Kindai minshū, 62, 79, 86. 75.  Murakami Shigeyoshi, Kindai minshū, 43, 85. 76.  Kanda Hideo cites studies by other minshū historians of religion in his “Kokuminteki tōgō to minshū shūkyō,” 382. One of the most prominent, Kano Masanao, argued that peasant thought was the driving force behind the Restoration, citing Tenrikyō, Kurozumikyō, and Konkōkyō as manifestations of a budding revolutionary mentality. See his Shihon shugi keiseiki, esp. 136–155. 77.  Murakami Shigeyoshi and Yasumaru Yoshio, Minshū shūkyō no shisō, NST 67. 78.  Yasumaru Yoshio’s classic statement, coauthored in 1966 with Hirota Masaki, is “ ‘Yonaoshi’ no ronri no keifu,” Nihonshi kenkyū 86 (Sept. 1966): 46–65, later reprinted in Yasumaru’s book Nihon no kindaika, 87–146. His next best-known publication in this area is Deguchi Nao. Among Western-language works that take inspiration from Yasumaru’s writings on Ōmotokyō, see especially Emily Groszos Ooms, Women and Millenarian Protest in Meiji Japan: Deguchi Nao and Ōmotokyō, Cornell East Asia Series 61 (Ithaca, NY: East Asia Program, Cornell University, 1993). 79.  Gluck, “People in History,” 39. 80.  Yasumaru also argued (again in contrast to Murakami) that groups not ordinarily included in the minshū shūkyō category (for lack of dissenting political elements), such as Shingaku, nonetheless shared the early modern cosmological view that human beings (centered on the mind or heart) are one with an absolute, all-powerful being. Yasumaru Yoshio, “Minshū shūkyō to kindai to iu keiken,” Tenri Daigaku Oyasato Kenkyūsho nenpō 3 (1996): 6. I am grateful to Hayashi Makoto for bringing this later piece by Yasumaru to my attention.

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81.  Yasumaru highlights the work of Taira Masayuki in this vein; Yasumaru, “Keiken,” 3. 82.  Yasumaru, “Keiken,” 3. Helen Hardacre includes a succinct assessment of Yasumaru’s conception of the early modern cosmology with particular reference to the notion of common moral values (tsūzoku dōtoku) in her Kurozumikyō and the New Religions of Japan (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1986), 42–43; see also 17–18 for a more general discussion of possible connections between Neo-Confucian self-cultivation and the world view of the new religions. On this point see also Helen Hardacre, “Conflict between Shugendo and the New Religions of Bakumatsu Japan,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 21, no. 2–3 (1994): 163. 83.  Cited by Nagahara Keiji, “Reflections on Recent Trends in Japanese Historiography,” Journal of Japanese Studies 10, no. 1 (1984): 178. No other source is given for Irokawa’s remarks in translation. 84.  Murakami Shigeyoshi, Kindai minshū, 70–71. 85.  Yasumaru, “Keiken,” 3. In his studies of later groups such as Ōmotokyō and Maruyamakyō, Yasumaru also takes into account that these movements’ posture of political dissent was fueled by a conservative reaction to the Meiji state’s innovations. 86.  See also Shimazono Susumu’s remarks about Yasumaru’s denial of magical elements in modern Japanese religions; Shimazono Susumu, “Religious Influences on Japan’s Modernization,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 8, no. 3–4 (Sept.–Dec. 1981): 210–213. 87.  See, e.g., Yasumaru, Nihon no kindaika, 11; and Gluck, “People in History,” 40. 88.  Takashi Fujitani, “Minshūshi as Critique of Orientalist Knowledges,” positions 6, no. 2 (1998): 311, 315. 89.  Fujitani, Minshūshi as Critique,” 316. 90.  See Yasumaru, “Keiken,” 5, for this passage and the quoted remarks in the preceding paragraph. The ominuki (allegedly revealed to Kakugyō by Sengen) and the fusegi are discussed in chapters 1 and 2. 91.  Yasumaru, “Keiken,” 6. Yasumaru also suggested that although magical elements played an important role in some popular religious movements, they simply represented a stage in the propagation implemented by these groups and were not fundamentally related to their original teachings. Cf. Shimazono, “Religious Influences,” 212. 92.  In Yasumaru’s view, Sengen, too, was an external controlling power, and thus any practices centered on the god belonged to the sphere of magical religion. As Shimazono concludes in regard to Yasumaru’s view, “This liberation from magic is tantamount to liberation from the worship of Shinto and Buddhist deities”; Shimazono, “Religious Influences,” 211. 93.  For example, in his well-known study of Konkōkyō, Ikigami no shisōshi, Kozawa Hiroshi also correlated the religious developments of the nineteenth century with a movement away from prayer rituals, even though he did not agree with Yasumaru’s argument that the people’s religions contributed to modernization primarily because they encouraged an ethical subjectivity or “philosophy of the heart” over against their devotional impulses. For Kozawa, people’s moral consciousness was undergirded rather by the Japanese idea of ikigami (a charismatic founding figure whom followers regard as a “living god”), which allowed them to take control of their own religious lives instead of depending on professionals for apotropaic and therapeutic services. Kozawa, Ikigami no shisōshi, e.g., 29; and/or Kozawa Hiroshi, “Bakumatsuki ni okeru minshū shūkyō undō no rekishiteki igi” (later included in Ikigami no shisōshi), in Rekishi ni okeru minzoku to minshū shugi, ed. Rekishigaku Kenkyūkai (Tokyo: Aoki Shoten, 1973), 104–105. See also Kanda’s characterization of Kozawa’s work in Kanda, “Kokuminteki,” 384.

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94.  On this point see also Kanda Hideo, Nyoraikyō no seiritsu tenkai to shiteki kiban, 19. 95.  Tsushima Michihito et al., “Shinshūkyō ni okeru seimeishugiteki kyūsaikan,” in Miyake, Kōmoto, and Nishiyama, Shūkyō, 79n1. 96.  Tsushima et al., “Shinshūkyō,” 68. 97.  Tsushima et al., “Shinshūkyō,” 69–70, 71, 78. 98.  Shimazono, Gendai shūkyōron, 142–144, 146. 99.  As Shimazono puts it, “The ‘heart’ is certainly given an important role [in these religions], but the deity is the all-powerful one. The ‘heart’ yields the ‘body’ to the omnipotent deity and in this way can do anything.” Shimazono, Gendai shūkyōron, 147. 100.  Tsushima et al., “Shinshūkyō,” 69. 101.  The notion that Christian or Western influence led to mischaracterization of native religious phenomena has been stressed in the Asian context especially by scholars of Buddhism. James Robson argues in his learned article on Chinese talismans that modern scholars of Chinese Buddhism long relegated to Daoist studies and thereby excluded from their own scholarly purview material perceived as magical—specifically practices that involved written talismans. He traces this interpretive approach to the lingering influence of Protestant ideas on Buddhist studies in the modern West and by extension on the latter’s Japanese sources, and faults, for example, the editors of standard Japanese Buddhist reference works for their failure to include entries on “talismans” (fu or fusho). James Robson, “Signs of Power: Talismanic Writing in Chinese Buddhism,” History of Religions 48, no. 2 (2008): 133– 135. (In fact, in their classic dictionaries Nakamura Hajime and Mochizuki Shinkō duly include remarks on talismanic texts under rubrics such as gofu, shinpu, and jumon.) However, the tendency to exclude prayer rituals and talismanic practices from the sphere of what we now call religion has a much older lineage in Japan than any we can trace to the introduction of post-Reformation or social-evolutionary ideologies in the nineteenth century. The propriety of prayer rituals was debated long before the Japanese equivalents of “magic” and “rationality” came into use in the modern period. The dichotomy between the various phenomena that were eventually designated shūkyō in Japan and practices such as healing or formulaic prayer was certainly nourished by imported Euro-American conceptions, but it was not without a basis in earlier Japanese critical discourse about the nature of proper religious behavior. The aforementioned Chōshū debate over indecent or suspicious rituals (inshi) is only one example from the Tokugawa period. 102.  Kanda, “Kokuminteki,” 387. I am indebted to Kanda Hideo for the summary of minshū shūkyō critiques in this paragraph. I have also consulted Kanda’s “Minshū shūkyō’ saikō: Nyoraikyō kankei shiryō kara miete kuru mono,” paper delivered at the Annual Meeting of Shūkyō to Shakai Gakkai held at Ritsumeikan University, Kyoto, June 6, 2010. For critical essays on Yasumaru’s views of popular religion and folk studies, among other topics, along with his responses, see Yasumaru shisō no tairon: Bunmeika, minshū, ryōgisei, ed. Yasumaru Yoshio and Isomae Jun’ichi (Tokyo: Perikansha, 2010). 103.  Shimazono, “Minshū shūkyō ka,” 165b, 167. 104.  Kanda traces the insistence on this-worldly salvation first to Murakami Shigeyoshi’s repeated assertions that the Tokugawa movements were fundamentally “focused on this world” (genze chūshin) and “human-centered” (ningen hon’i); then to Tsushima and his coauthors’ argument for the vitalistic cosmology of the new religions in general; and ultimately to Yasumaru’s work. Kanda believes that Nyoraikyō followers as well as other late Tokugawa practitioners (lay Pure Land Buddhists, miscellaneous religious itinerants, followers of Hirata

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Atsutane [1776–1843]) were intensely concerned with pacifying the spirits of the dead, not simply with improving their lives in this world. Kanda Hideo, “ ‘Minshū shūkyō’ saikō— Nyoraikyō kankei shiryō kara miete kuru mono: Kōdinētā to komentētā to no ōtō o chūshin ni,” Shūkyō to shakai 17 (June 2011): 122. For a fuller exposition of his argument, see Kanda Hideo, “Kinsei kōki ni okeru ‘kyūsai’ no ba,” in Edo no shisō 1, ed. Koyasu Nobukuni (Tokyo: Perikansha, 1995): 73–100. See also Nyoraikyō Isson Kyōdan kankei shiryō, ed. Kanda Hideo and Asano Miwako (Osaka: Seibundō, 2003–2009), for an extensive body of primary materials accompanied by analysis of Nyoraikyō that takes due account of both the informal religious and formal sectarian contexts in which this group developed. 105.  See Katsurajima’s Bakumatsu, esp. 139–171. Focusing on Konkōkyō, Katsurajima argued that while the group represented its god, Tenchi Kane, as an absolute, salvific deity, closer examination reveals that this conception was constructed under pressure from the Meiji state’s Shinto-inflected ideological campaign and its associated drive to “civilize and enlighten” Japan in response to the perceived challenge of Western culture, especially Christian monotheism. 106.  Drawing on Michel de Certeau, Koyasu argues that the language of these scholars (particularly Kozawa and Yasumaru) directs our attention to the minshū shūkyō discourse itself, to the point of being ahistorical and even (in the case of Kozawa) demagogical in nature. Koyasu Nobukuni, “Bakumatsu minshū shisō no kenkyū, Katsurajima Nobuhiro: ‘Minshū shūkyō’ kan no tenkan,” Shisō 819 (Sept. 1992): 108. Ōtani Masayuki has also faulted the minshūshi scholars (and others), with specific reference to the study of Fujikō, for their alleged inattention to historical and textual contexts; Ōtani Masayuki, Kakugyō-kei Fuji shinkō: Dokusō to seisui no shūkyō (Tokyo: Iwata Shoin, 2011), 16–21. 107.  Koyasu, “ ‘Minshū shūkyō’ kan,” 109. 108.  Saba Mahmood, The Politics of Piety: The Islamic Revival and the Feminist Subject (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2005), 174. 109.  Jean Comaroff, “Epilogue: Defying Disenchantment—Reflections on Ritual, Power, and History,” in Asian Visions of Authority: Religion and the Modern States of East and Southeast Asia, ed. Charles F. Keyes, Laurel Kendall, and Helen Hardacre (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1994), 305–306; material in brackets is inserted. Comaroff follows Max Weber in this regard. 110.  Comaroff, “Epilogue,” 307. Well-known nineteenth-century founders of new religions who were allegedly possessed by powerful deities include Isson Nyorai Kino (1756–1826), Nakayama Miki (1798–1887), Kawate Bunjirō (1814–1883), and Deguchi Nao (1836–1918). 111.  See Comaroff, “Epilogue,” 308–309. Stanley J. Tambiah argues along similar lines that ascetics “sediment” the charisma they acquire through acts of renunciation in objects such as talismans and amulets; The Buddhist Saints of the Forest and the Cult of Amulets: A Study in Charisma, Hagiography, Sectarianism, and Millennial Buddhism (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 335. 112.  In her discussion of female participants in the mosque movement in Egypt, Mahmood argues for “a notion of human agency, defined in terms of individual responsibility that is bounded by both an eschatological structure and a social one.” Mahmood, Politics of Piety, 173. 113.  For an in-depth study of temple certification (tera-uke) in relation to the patron household (danka) system, see Namlin Hur, Death and Social Order in Early Modern Japan: Buddhism, Anti-Christianity, and the Danka System (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2007), 37–108.

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114.  Fuju fuse refers to the belief in this group that one should neither give nor receive support from people who are not devoted to the Lotus Sutra. Hidden nenbutsu followers opposed the official True Pure Land establishment and advocated exclusive practice of devotion to Amida Buddha in their own secret groups. For a summary of Tokugawa regulation of religious institutions, see Kasahara Kazuo, ed., A History of Japanese Religion, trans. Paul McCarthy and Gaynor Sekimori (Tokyo: Kosei, 2001), 333–348; and, for more details about the above outlawed groups, 387–420.

Chapter One: Changing Pilgrimage Culture at Mount Fuji Portions of this chapter appear in an earlier version in Janine T. Anderson Sawada, Defining Shugendō: Critical Studies on Japanese Mountain Religion, ed. Andrea Castiglioni, Fabio Rambelli, and Carina Roth (London: Bloomsbury, 2020), 187–204. 1.  Matsudai is also believed to have advocated a form of Pure Land Buddhism and, along with his followers, buried over five thousand volumes of Buddhist scriptures on Mount Fuji. Remnants of sutras discovered at the summit in 1929 and 1930 have been dated to 1219–1222. See Ōtaka Yasumasa, Fujisan shinkō to Shugendō (Tokyo: Iwata Shoin, 2013), 27–28. The actual start of Murayama Shugendō is credited to the outreach efforts of the early thirteenthcentury practitioner, Raison. Hayakawa Tōru, “Fujisan,” in Shugendō jiten, ed. Miyake Hitoshi (1986; repr., Tokyo: Tōkyōdō Shuppan, 1997), 324c, 325; Earhart, Mount Fuji, 26–28. For an informative discussion of the significance of sutra burials in eleventh- to twelfth-century Japan, see D. Max Moerman, “The Death of the Dharma: Buddhist Sutra Burials in Early Medieval Japan,” in The Death of Sacred Texts: Ritual Disposal and Renovation of Texts in World Religions, ed. Kristina Mirvold (London: Routledge, 2010), 71–90. 2.  Ōtaka, Fujisan, 26–27. Shōgoin’s control over mountain practitioners in general advanced rapidly in the sixteenth century; it was officially appointed to administer the Honzan line of Shugendō in the early Edo period. 3.  Mount Fuji’s climbing routes, like those of other mountains in Japan, are marked at ascending intervals by ten stations, called gō. 4.  Hayakawa Tōru, “Fujisan,” 324c. Tsujinobō was the bettō or affiliate of the Main Sengen Shrine, Chiseibō was the affiliate of the temple Dainichidō, and Daikyōbō was identified with worship of the deity Daitōryō. 5.  Ōtaka compares the relationship between the shuto and yamabushi to that between the shrine-based pilgrimage agents (oshi) and mountain guides at Kumano; Ōtaka, Fujisan, 48. 6.  Ōtaka, Fujisan, 222–223, cites these and several other rules issued for Murayama personnel in 1553. 7.  Ōtaka, Fujisan, 54–55. Suruga and Tōtōmi correspond to today’s Shizuoka Prefecture. 8.  The official title of the Main Sengen Shrine (also called the Main Shrine in this study) is Fujisan Hongū Sengen Taisha. Ōmiya (literally, “great shrine”) refers to its location in Fujinomiya-shi, Shizuoka Prefecture, and informally to the shrine itself. Ōtaka Yasumasa suggests that the Murayama practitioners and the priests of the Main Shrine enjoyed close relations during the late medieval period; members of the Fuji family, head priest of the shrine, had either joined the Shugendō community or held blood ties with the temple residents. Ōtaka, Fujisan, 29; and see also Ōtaka, Sankei mandara no kenkyū (Tokyo: Iwata Shoin, 2012), 241. Regarding the “labor division” between the Murayama yamabushi and the shrine priests,

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see also Horiuchi Makoto, “Fuji ni tsudou kokoro—omoteguchi to kitaguchi no Fuji shinkō,” in Kyōkai to hina ni ikiru hitobito, Chūsei no fūkei o yomu 3, ed. Amino Yoshihiko and Ishii Susumu (Tokyo: Shijinbutsu Ōraisha, 1995), 145, 148. Horiuchi stresses, however, that Ōmiya and Murayama also competed over rights to service the same patron households (danna); Horiuchi, “Fuji ni tsudou kokoro,” 143. 9.  The practice of employing freelance kanjin agents to solicit funds on a temporary basis did not adequately resolve these institutions’ economic instability, and by the end of the medieval period more secure arrangements had been put in place by many temples and shrines. Previously unattached solicitation professionals were incorporated into routinized fundraising (called hongan) as well as commercial enterprises such as grain trading. Ōtaka, Fujisan, 324–325; he cites Shimosaka Mamoru, “Chūseiteki ‘kanjin’ no henshitsu katei: Kiyomizudera ni okeru ‘hongan’ shutsugen no keiki o megutte,” in Shimosaka, Egakareta Nihon no chūsei: Ezu bunseki ron (Tokyo: Hōzōkan, 2003) 189–223. For a study of solicitation practices before the Muromachi period (1392–1573), see Janet Goodwin, Alms and Vagabonds: Buddhist Temples and Popular Patronage in Medieval Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1994). 10.  The lodges administered by the Main Shrine were expected to compensate the local authorities in turn. For example, a 1556 domain-approved directive required each pilgrim house to pay two kan, five hundred mon annually to the Ōmiya superintendent (daikan). Ōtaka, Fujisan, 326. In the early Edo period, one kan of copper cash was roughly equivalent to one thousand mon; one mon corresponded to one piece of cash coin. 11.  For this information, see Ōtaka, Fujisan, 325–327. The goma (Skt. homa) votive fire ritual, usually dedicated to the deity Fudō Myōō, is practiced in esoteric Buddhism and Shugendō. 12.  Local authorities generally encouraged pilgrimage in order to gain revenue from the toll barriers in the areas under their control; Shinjō Tsunezō, Shaji sankei no shakai keizaishiteki kenkyū (Tokyo: Hanawa Shobō, 1982), 694–695. At Mount Fuji, the climbing fees, yakusen, were charged only to members of the nonsamurai classes. See Miyaji Naokazu and Hirono Saburō, eds., Sengen Jinja no rekishi, (Tokyo: Kokon Shoin, 1929), 469, and, for more details about these and other taxes, 469–507. 13.  Miyaji and Hirono, Sengen Jinja, 476. 14.  Miyaji and Hirono, Sengen Jinja, 472–476. Certain barriers (sekisho) were already removed in the late sixteenth century (Shinjō, Shaji sankei, 659–661); but the Tokugawa authorities soon became invested in various aspects of the Fuji pilgrimage economy, including at a distance from the mountain, such as boat fees aimed at pilgrims traveling to Mount Fuji from the west. Kikuchi Kunihiko, “Chūsei kōki kara kinsei zenki ni okeru Fujisan Murayamaguchi no tozansha: Fujisan danki o chūshin ni,” in Fujisan oshi no rekishiteki kenkyū, ed. Takano Toshihiko and Kōshū Shiryō Chōsakai (Tokyo: Yamakawa Shuppansha, 2009), 389–390. 15.  The text Jihen meikyō shū is dated the sixth month of Keichū 13 (1608). It is discussed and excerpted by Kikuchi Kunihiko in his study of pilgrim registers, “Fujisan danki,” 341–393. Records of pilgrims’ experiences that predate the expansion of Fujikō in the middle and late Edo period are rare. Fujisan danki is the only extant register associated with the southern approach that covers the late medieval through early Edo periods; it contains entries from as early as Tenmon 1 (1532). Registers produced by the northern oshi tend to say little about people’s actual experiences during the climbs. Kikuchi Kunihiko, “Fujisan danki,” 344.

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16.  Fuchū corresponds to the city of Shizuoka. One Japanese league (ri) is close to four kilometers. 17.  As Kikuchi notes, the monk apparently stayed in the Ōmiya area to carry out further preliminary rituals; it would have required less than half a day on foot to reach Murayama from the Main Sengen Shrine. Kikuchi Kunihiko, “Fujisan danki,” 342. 18.  Daikōbō; the author probably means Daikyōbō, one of the three Shugendō residences. Kikuchi Kunihiko, “Fujisan danki,” 342. 19.  The Six Karmic Realms fee (rokudōsen) was customarily placed inside the coffin of a recently deceased person. According to Buddhist lore, the dead person needed to pay this fee in order to cross the river of the underworld, but in effect it was considered protection against possible harm to the living by the spirit of the deceased. In the present context, however, rokudōsen simply amounted to an additional levy on the pilgrims who passed through Murayama. Miyaji and Hirono, Sengen Jinja, 477–479. 20.  是ハタキ有; translation tentative. 21.  “Memorial offering” here denotes the amount placed on the small table next to the pillow of the deceased (makura-tsukue no bukku). 22.  Cited in Kikuchi Kunihiko, “Fujisan danki,” 341. Pilgrims were expected to purchase not only a mat or cushion (enza) but also a so-called Fuji kesa (surplice). Kikuchi Kunihiko, “Fujisan danki,” 389n2. The collections at Sai no Kawara on Mount Fuji were presumably solicitations from professional mendicants. 23.  The value of currency in use during the early Edo period is difficult to estimate. Four thousand mon was officially the equivalent of one ryō of gold—in theory, the cost of one koku (180 liters) of rice, which was supposedly enough to feed a person for one year. 24.  Kikuchi Kunihiko, “Fujisan danki,” 381, 388. Iwashina also observes that Shugendō practitioners had organized Fuji groups (kō) in several areas both west of the mountain and north of Edo; Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 37–39. 25.  Kikuchi Kunihiko, “Fujisan danki,” 387. He refers to Horiuchi Makoto’s work on the prayers recited by these lay groups in the latter’s “Murayama-guchi o chūshin to suru Fuji shinkō kankei shiryō,” Kokuritsu Rekishi Minzoku Hakubutsukan kenkyū hōkoku 142 (Mar. 2008): 475–499. Iga corresponds to the northwestern part of today’s Mie Prefecture, and Ōmi to Shiga Prefecture. 26.  Horiuchi Makoto, “Fujikō seiritsu izen no Fuji shinkō: Yoshida oshi shozō no sahōsho o moto ni,” in Takano and Kōshū, Fujisan oshi no rekishiteki kenkyū, 283. Both of the bronze kakebotoke medallions were offered up by a prayer ritualist (hongannin) named Genshin, from Kazusa (central Chiba). A photograph of an example dated to Bunmei 14 (1482) is contained in Fujiyoshida-shi shi, Shiryō hen, 7 vols. (Fujiyoshida-shi: Fujiyoshida-shi, 1992–1998) (hereafter FYSS), 2, Kodai chūsei, 166n104. 27.  Katsuyama-ki, in Sasuga Hō, Katsuyama-ki to genpon no kōshō (Tokyo: Kokusho Kankōkai, 1985), 104. Pilgrims surged especially in 1500 because it was a kōshin or “special dispensation” year (see note 125 below). Katsuyama-ki was recorded by the Buddhist clergy of Jōrenji, a Hokke temple affiliated with the Katsuyama Sengen Shrine in Tsuru district, Kai (southeast Yamanashi Prefecture), on Mount Fuji’s northern slope. The record spans about a century, beginning in the Bunmei era (1469–1487). 28.  The bears are said to have emerged from the “depths of the mountain” (naiin), though the authors note that according to some reports these were not bears but “great demon-spirits” (daikishin); Katsuyama-ki, in Sasuga, Katsuyama-ki to genpon no kōshō, 116.

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29.  Horiuchi, “Fujikō seiritsu,” 282. 30.  Hirano Eiji, ed., Fuji shinkō to Fujikō (Tokyo: Iwata Shoin, 2004), 127–128, 129–130. The full title of this shrine is Kitaguchi Hongū Fuji Sengen Jinja (Main Fuji Sengen Shrine of the Northern Approach). The establishment of the shrine at the beginning of the northern trail is thought to have occurred in the ninth century in connection with developments at the Main Sengen Shrine in the south (Ōmiya), which was allegedly built in 810. There are no historical records that document when the northern shrine staff began to serve as pilgrimage agents (oshi), but for reports of Yoshida oshi in the mid-thirteenth century, see Hirano, Fuji shinkō, 126–127. 31.  The catchment area for the patron (danna) households that were cultivated by the northern oshi broadened further after the beginning of the Edo period to include today’s Fukushima, Ibaraki, Chiba, and Saitama Prefectures. See Horiuchi, “Fujikō seiritsu,” 286, including his map of the geographical distribution of the Yoshida danna sites. 32.  The southern climbers were often supervised by Murayama sendatsu, whereas on the northern approach these matters were controlled primarily by Yoshida oshi. Regarding the latter, see Horiuchi, “Fujikō seiritsu,” 281, and for more details about the northern rituals, esp. 294–295. Note that even though some yamabushi had used the northern and eastern trails at various times during the medieval period, Shugendō practitioners did not play a direct role in the northern pilgrimage establishment at Yoshida, in contrast to Murayama. 33.  Horiuchi, “Fujikō seiritsu,” 300. 34.  FYSS 5, Kinsei 3:1133. See also Hirano, Fuji shinkō, 135. A number of the Yoshida oshi eventually constructed “in-house” waterfalls from mountain streams that flowed through their gardens, in which the pilgrims could carry out cleansing rituals before the climb; the oshi lodges also contained altars, before which the travelers underwent oharai (purification); Hirano, Fuji shinkō, 139. 35.  For example, Fuji mono-imi narabi ni naishō no oboe (Memorandum on Fuji abstinence practices and internal matters), dated 1612, in Horiuchi, “Fujikō seiritsu,” 288–293. The author of Fuji mono-imi belonged to Sen’yōin, a branch temple of the Shingon temple, Enchōji, in Shimōsa. The text is contained in FYSS 5, Kinsei 3:809–818. 36.  Horiuchi, “Fujikō seiritsu,” 288–290. Another manual of the same period, In-musubi (Making mudras) also describes the practices required of pilgrims, as well as the mudras and mantras that the priests were supposed to use during worship at the Kitaguchi Shrine. Inmusubi is undated, but in Horiuchi’s estimation it also originated in the early seventeenth century; he reproduces the text in “Fujikō seiritsu,” 309–315. 37.  The Yoshida oshi apparently prided themselves on the shrine’s Shugendō-style ritual customs. It is worth noting in this regard that the Yoshida oshi guild resisted enrolling its members in the Yoshida or Shirakawa Shinto schools, a trend that began in the early eighteenth century. See Hirano, Fujisan shinkō, 154–159. 38.  Ōtaka, Fujisan shinkō, 51. 39.  Hayakawa, “Fujisan,” 326. Regarding Imagawa Yoshimoto’s patronage and related political circumstances, see also Talia Andrei, “Mapping Sacred Spaces: Representations of Pleasure and Worship in Sankei mandara” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 2016), 105, 125, 134. 40.  Endō, “Fuji shinkō,” 55–56. 41.  Ōtaka, Fujisan shinkō, 111, 113. The actual practices that the Murayama yamabushi carried out during the early Edo period are unknown, but it is likely that they were

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foundational for the later activities for which we do have records. The later documentation indicates, for example, that practitioners were expected to follow specific precedents in reciting mantric syllables and sutra passages during ritual events such as ceremonial bonfires, and to use particular formats when writing talismanic slips. See Ōtaka, Fujisan shinkō, 128, and 142–145 for relevant tables. 42.  Ōtaka, Fujisan shinkō, 153. 43.  Ōtaka, Fujisan shinkō, 111. Fief revenue, alms campaign, and fees for prayer rituals and talismans were common income sources for authorized Shugendō institutions in the Edo period; Kōhōji at Murayama was a designated branch temple of Shōgoin, the Tendai Buddhist temple that administered the Honzan line of Shugendō. Other kinds of mountain practitioners, such as the Mount Yudono “permanent ascetics” (issei gyōnin), however, relied heavily on lay followers for support. Regarding the latter dynamic, see Andrea Castiglioni, “Devotion in Flesh and Bone: The Mummified Corpses of Mount Yudono Ascetics in Edo-Period Japan,” Asian Ethnology 78, no. 1 (2019), esp. 26–33. 44.  In the mid-seventeenth century local villagers claimed that the Daikyōbō land was in fact “common land” (iriaichi) to which peasants enjoyed customary right of access, and that the Murayama personnel had falsified documents to the contrary. The final judgment in 1679 went heavily against the Shugendō community: the retired priest of Daikyōbō was exiled, the Daikyōbō and Chiseibō yamabushi were expelled, and the Tsujinobō priest was placed under house arrest. Ōtaka, Fujisan shinkō, 118. 45.  Talia J. Andrei argues on the basis of the shifting composition and content of Fuji sankei mandara that the Shugendō center was well in decline as early as the second half of the sixteenth century. See her “Mapping Sacred Spaces,” 89–152. The route that pilgrims were required to follow during the initial segment of their journey was indeed a source of conflict between Murayama and Ōmiya before the Edo period; see, for example, Horiuchi Makoto, “Fuji ni tsudou kokoro,” esp. 138–139. Ogino Yūko concludes from the composition of Murayama-sponsored guide maps (annai ezu) that in the later Tokugawa period as well, pilgrims arriving from areas west of Mount Fuji were still being pressured by Ōmiya and other area superintendents to pass through the Main Shrine instead of simply taking the direct route from Iwamoto village (off the Tōkaidō) to Murayama; see her “Fujisan minami-guchi annai ezu: Murayama shugenja to nanroku Fuji tozan,” Fuji Shiritsu Hakubutsukan [Kaguyahime Myūjiamu] chōsa kenkyū hōkoku 4 (1988): 26–29. 46.  Records indicate that by the early nineteenth century, Mount Fuji yamabushi were greatly reduced in number and Shugendō disciplines at the peak had fallen off almost entirely. Ōtaka, Fujisan shinkō, 119. 47.  The number of townspeople (chōnin) in Edo is estimated to have grown from about 150,000 in 1634 to over 500,000 in 1721; samurai inhabitants added approximately another half million to the total population. Katō Takashi, “Edo in the Seventeenth Century: Aspects of Urban Development in a Segregated Society,” Urban History 27, no. 2 (Aug. 2000): 194. 48.  As noted earlier, two important studies of the transformation of pilgrimage institutions and practices in the Edo period are Sarah Thal, Rearranging the Landscape of the Gods; and Barbara Ambros, Emplacing a Pilgrimage. Ambros’ explanation of the eventual dominance of the Ōyama pilgrimage system by the professional class of oshi strikingly parallels later developments at Mount Fuji. The Ise pilgrimage is perhaps the most conspicuous example of the popularization of religious travel in the early modern period. For a recent in-depth discussion, see Teeuwen and Breen, Ise Shrines, esp. 139–161.

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49.  Suzuki Shōei, “Fuji Ontake to Chūbu reizan,” in Fuji, 21. See also chapter 2, note 1 of this volume. 50.  Suzuki Shōei, “Fuji Ontake to Chūbu reizan,” 21–22; and Miyake Hitoshi, “Shugendo,” in A History of Japanese Religion, ed. Kasahara Kazuo (Tokyo: Kosei, 2001), 470–472. See also Toyoda Takeshi, Nihon shōnin shi: Chūsei hen (Tokyo: Tōkyōdō, 1949), 253, 255. On the rising interest in mountain-based religion in Edo in particular, see Tokieda Tsutomu, “Kinsei shugen no kōkogaku,” in Edo no inori: Shinkō to ganbō, ed. Edo Iseki Kenkyūkai (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2004), 5–20. 51.  Kakugyō’s family name was reportedly Hasegawa; later followers claimed that he was a descendant of the famous Fujiwara clan. For details, see Tyler, “Great Practice,” 257–258. 52.  Gotaigyō no maki (Kakugyō Tōbutsu kūki), attributed to Nichigyō Nichigan, ed. Itō Kenkichi and Yasumaru Yoshio, in NST 67:459; trans. Tyler, “Great Practice,” 292. The authors of this account, no doubt members of the later Fujikō movement, were particularly liable to bias on this point; at the time of their writing in the late Edo period the activities of the kō members and the Yoshida oshi of the northern approach were inextricably intertwined. See note 87 for more detail about Kakugyō’s traditional biography. 53.  Endō, “Fuji shinkō,” 55. For remarks about the Suruga government’s control of the southern approach through the agency of the Main Sengen Shrine and the Murayama temples, see Ōtaka, Fujisan shinkō, e.g., 225. 54.  See Miyaji and Hirono, Sengen Jinja, 826–827. Some of Kakugyō’s successors seem to have used the Ōmiya-Murayama route; see, e.g., Getsugan, Getsugan koji kuji no maki (1684), in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 122. 55.  Hirano, Fuji shinkō, 139–140. One oshi record states that 58.6 percent of the pilgrims in 1800 were kō members. The so-called 808 kō said to be active in Edo during the late Tokugawa period all sent their members to Yoshida oshi lodges in the summer months. 56.  For the classic anthropological statement, see Victor Turner, “The Center Out There,” History of Religions 12, no. 3 (1973): 191–230; and Victor Turner and Edith Turner, Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture: Anthropological Perspectives (New York: Columbia University Press, 1978); and for a prominent later critique, John Eade and Michael J. Sallnow, eds., Contesting the Sacred: The Anthropology of Christian Pilgrimage, paperback edition (1991; Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2000), especially their “Introduction to the Paperback Edition,” ix–xxx. 57.  The miniature Fuji mounds have attracted the attention of cultural historians as well as scholars of social and religious history. For one recent study of the well-known Takada Fuji mound, see Takeya Yukie, Fujizuka: Edo Takada Fuji chikuzō no nazo o toku (Tokyo: Iwata Shoin, 2009). In English, see Earhart, Mount Fuji, 74–75, 94–96; and for preliminary essays by art and cultural historians, see Melinda Takeuchi, “Making Mountains: Mini-Fujis, Edo Popular Religion and Hiroshige’s ‘One Hundred Famous View of Edo,’ ” Impressions 24 (2002): 24–47; and Henry D. Smith II, “Fujizuka: The Mini-Mount Fujis of Tokyo,” Asiatic Society of Japan Bulletin 3 (Mar. 1986): 2–6. 58.  Here I borrow the parlance of Allan G. Grapard in his “The Textualized Mountain— Enmountained Text: The Lotus Sutra in Kunisaki,” in The Lotus Sūtra in Japanese Culture, ed. George J. Tanabe, Jr., and Willa Jane Tanabe (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1989), 181–182. 59.  Kojiki, NST 1:51. For an English translation, see Donald L. Philippi, trans., Kojiki (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1968), 81–86. The phrase used in the original is

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sashikomori. Gary Ebersole interprets Amaterasu’s concealment in terms of death and rebirth themes in his Ritual Poetry and the Politics of Death in Early Japan (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989), 93–98. 60.  Shrine protocol, for example, required officiants to confine themselves for a set period of time before carrying out rituals—they remained in specially enclosed “confinement chambers” (komoridō) and abstained from specified foods, sexual intercourse, exposure to blood, and other putative sources of pollution. Nihon minzoku jiten, ed. Ōtsuka Minzoku-kai (Tokyo: Kōbundō, 1994), 103. Buddhist monastics, komorisō, similarly shut themselves up in special abstinence enclosures (shōjinya) for periods of fasting, meditation, and other disciplines. 61.  Izanagi’s foray into and escape from Yomi no kuni is the classic example of this conception. Kojiki, NST 1:33–34; trans. Philippi, Kojiki, 61–67. The same motif informs medieval didactic tales such as Fuji no hitoana sōshi (discussed below). 62.  The classic statement is Arnold van Gennep, The Rites of Passage, trans. M. B. Vizedom and Gabrielle L. Caffe (London: Routledge and Paul, 1960). 63.  See Tokieda Tsutomu, Shugendō no kōkogakuteki kenkyū (Tokyo: Yūzankaku, 2005), esp. 129–168, for a detailed analysis of Japanese mountain cave practices, including discussion of the various types of caves and the ways in which they were used by religious practitioners from early through Tokugawa times. 64.  The idea of the axis mundi as a universal religious theme is most famously associated with Mircea Eliade; a more sober phenomenological account of the mountain motif is contained in W. Brede Kristensen, The Meaning of Religion: Lectures in the Phenomenology of Religion, trans. J. B. Carman (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1960), 106–109. 65.  James E. Brady, “Settlement Configuration, Cosmology, and Caves: The Role of Caves at Dos Pilas,” American Anthropologist 99, no. 3 (Sept. 1997): 604. 66.  The impressive number of cave practice sites that were established in China over the centuries testifies to the Daoist belief that, as Thomas Hahn puts it, “a cave is the heart of the mountain, the very foundation of the qi energies of the earth.” Thomas H. Hahn, “The Standard Taoist Mountain and Related Features of Religious Geography,” Cahiers d’ExtrêmeAsie 4 (1988): 147. 67.  Yamamoto Shino, “Fuji no seichi to Hitoana: ‘Hitoana’ to ‘Gotainai’ ni miru kinsei shomin no shinkō to tabi,” in Fujisan to Nihonjin no shinsei, ed. Amano Kiyoko and Sawato Hirosato (Tokyo: Iwata Shoin, 2007), 229. A respectable typology of caves was established by the mid-Edo period. See the entry for “hora” in the first volume of the well-known Tokugawa encyclopedia, Wakan sansai zue, compiled by Terashima Ryōan and published in woodblockprint edition in 1712 (1970 facsimile reproduction; repr., Tokyo: Tōkyō Bijutsu, 1976), 610b. 68.  See the charts in Takanori Ogawa, “On Lava Caves in Japan and Vicinity,” Proceedings of the Third International Symposium on Vulcanology: A Special Session of the 39th Annual Convention of the National Speleological Society, Bend, Oregon, 30 July–1 August, 1982, 58–59, for the lava flows in the Mount Fuji area and pertinent cave locations. An important subset of these volcanic hollows is the genre of “tree-shaped lava-caves” (yōgan jukei)—small mazes of tunnels that are left behind after the lava emitted by a volcano has burned off fallen tree trunks and their attached limbs. Funatsu Cave on the northern slope of Mount Fuji, also known as Kyūtainai (Old Womb Cave), is probably the best-known example. Another cave in the vicinity of the Yoshida trail is Shintainai (New Womb Cave), sometimes called Yoshida Tainai. The latter was first used by a Marutō  kō sendatsu called Nichigyō

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Seizan  in the mid-Meiji period. Ehagaki ni miru Fuji tozan, ed. Fujiyoshida-shi Rekishi Minzoku Hakubutsukan, exhibition catalogue (Fujiyoshida-shi: Fujiyoshida-shi Kyōiku Iinkai, 1999), 84. 69.  The height above which trees do not grow on the mountain depends on the location and other conditions of the particular slope, but it ranges from about 2,900 meters on the western slope to 1,400 meters on the southeastern slope. Oka Shuichi and Kanno Hiromitsu, “Plant Community Dynamics and Microtopography Close to the Tree Line on the Northwestern Slope of Mt. Fuji, Central Japan,” Geographical Review of Japan, Series B, 85, no. 1 (Jan. 2012): 29. 70.  Tyler, “Great Practice,” 270. 71.  Uematsu Shōhachi counts 257 inscribed stone monuments (hitō) in the Hitoana site (he includes not only grave markers but also stone lanterns, buddha images, columns, stupalike markers, and the like). The oldest date to the second half of the seventeenth century and are mostly related to Kakugyō’s followers. (Ganshin and Getsugan, two of Kakugyō’s successors, are commemorated by stone buddha images inside the cave, inscribed in 1664 and 1673, respectively.) The earliest “Fujikō” marker dates to the mid-eighteenth century. Uematsu Shōhachi, “Fujikō no seiritsu to tenkai,” in Edo no inori: Shinkō to ganbō, ed. Edo Iseki Kenkyūkai (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2004), 248, 257. 72.  I am following Iwashina’s description. Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 70–71. Tyler renders much of the detail from Iwashina in his introduction to “Great Practice,” 270. 73.  Uematsu, “Fujikō no seiritsu to tenkai,” 242–243. Azuma kagami is a historical chronicle that contains entries for events purported to have taken place from 1180 to 1266. 74.  Azuma kagami, entry for Kennin 3 [1203].6.3; in Koten senshū honbun dēta bēsu, Kokubungaku Kenkyū Shiryōkan (1626 woodblock-print edition), satsu 11, 50–51. Relevant parts of the Azuma kagami story are translated into English by Tyler, “Great Practice,” 271; and are summarized by R. Keller Kimbrough in his “Travel Writing from Hell? Minamoto no Yoriie and the Politics of Fuji no hitoana sōshi,” Proceedings of the Association for Japanese Literary Studies 7 (2007): 1–2. 75.  Regarding the tale’s intended didactic uses in the late medieval period, see Koyama Issei, Fuji no hitoana sōshi: Kenkyū to shiryō (Tokyo: Bunka Shobō Hakubunsha, 1983), 1, 16– 17. The story is translated by R. Keller Kimbrough in “The Tale of the Fuji Cave,” in Monsters, Animals, and Other Worlds: A Collection of Short Medieval Japanese Tales, ed. Haruo Shirane and Keller Kimbrough (New York: Columbia University Press, 2008), 197–216. Kimbrough’s translation is based on the Keichō 8 (1603) manuscript Fuji no hitoana sōshi, reproduced in Muromachi jidai monogatari taisei, ed. Yokoyama Shigeru and Matsumoto Takanobu (Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten, 1988), 11:429–451. 76.  The written Fuji no hitoana sōshi has been dated to 1527 at the latest. Kimbrough, “Travel Writing,” 1; see also 6–7 for the theory of a shared source for both stories. For the dating of hell tales, see Koyama, Fuji no hitoana sōshi, 30. 77.  That is, especially the realms of hell, hungry ghosts, beasts, and aśuras (fighting spirits). 78.  Trans. Kimbrough, “Fuji Cave,” 206. For the original passage, see Muromachi jidai 11:439a. 79.  Fuji no hitoana sōshi, in Muromachi jidai 11:435a; trans. Kimbrough, “Fuji Cave,” 203. 80.  Koyama dates the beginning of the circulation of the woodblock-print version to the Kanbun era (1661–1673); Koyama, Fuji no hitoana sōshi, 57.

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81.  For practices in the Kyoto area, see Murakami Norio, Kinsei kanjin no kenkyū: Kyōto no minkan shūkyōsha (Kyoto: Hōzōkan, 2011), esp. chapter 2, “Rakuchū rakugai no fujigori to Fujikō,” 179–206. See also Yamagata Takashi, “Kinsei Yamato ni okeru Fuji shinkō to Fujikō: Nanto no jirei o chūshin ni,” in Gangōji Bunkazai Kenkyūjo sōritsu 40-shūnen kinen ronbunshū, ed. Gangōji Bunkazai Kenkyūjo Minzoku Bunkazai Honzonkai (Tokyo: Gubapuro, 2007), 145–154. 82.  The author of Hinami kiji is Kurokawa Dōyu; the text was written in 1676 and first published in 1685. For the entry, see Nippon shomin seikatsu shiryō shūsei 23, Nenjū gyōji, ed. Hagiwara Tatsuo and Yamaji Kōzō (Tokyo: San’ichi Shobō, 1981), 75b. I am indebted to Yokoyama Toshio for first bringing this work to my attention; he discusses it in his “Kōji no jidai no nenjū gyōji: Hinami kiji, Nihon saijiki o yomu,” in Anteiki shakai ni okeru jinsei no shosō: Nenjū gyōji, ed. Yokoyama Toshio and Fujii Jōji (Kyoto: Kyōto Zeminaru Hausu, 1992), 98–103. The description in Hinami kiji of fujigori is also cited at length in Koyama, Fuji no hitoana sōshi, 57–58. Mount Fuji was visually incorporated in other pilgrimage itineraries as well. Peter Knecht argues, for example, that the Ise sankei mandara depicts both Mount Asama and Mount Fuji in the distance by way of directing the viewer and prospective pilgrim to rebirth in the Pure Land of Amida. Peter Knecht, “Ise sankei mandara and the Image of the Pure Land,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 33, no. 2 (2006): 244. 83.  For Koyama’s argument, see his Fuji no hitoana sōshi, 58–61. 84.  More specifically, at the close of this particular edition we are told that reading it once is equivalent to climbing Mount Fuji three times; that the deity Asama will bless with prosperity those who keep the book in their house; and that people who doubt the Tale will fall into a profound hell (muken jigoku): “Absolutely do not doubt! Namu Fuji Asama Daibosatsu.” Cited from the Keichō 12 (1607) manuscript by Koyama in his Fuji no hitoana sōshi, 3–4. See R. Keller Kimbrough, “Tourists in Paradise: Writing the Pure Land in Medieval Japanese Fiction,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 33, no. 2 (2006): 280, for an English translation of the complete passage. 85.  Along these lines Koyama compares the alleged purifying effect of reading the Tale to the purifying action of the water in fujigori rituals. Koyama, Fuji no hitoana sōshi, 60, 61. 86.  Barbara Ruch cites examples of similar claims made in several Muromachi narratives and suggests that the reason “why so many Muromachi narratives are preserved in an ehon form in which the paintings are so primitive, so quickly done” is that religious institutions and agents produced these texts as omamori; Barbara Ruch, “Medieval Jongleurs and the Making of a National Literature,” in Japan in the Muromachi Age, ed. John Whitney Hall and Toyoda Takeshi (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1977), 302–303. The quality of the illustrations in the ehon version of Fuji no hitoana in the Spencer Collection of the New York Public Library supports the hypothesis that these narratives’ central aim was not necessarily to convey content. However, vernacular Buddhist literature of this kind functioned in more than one way, depending on the context. Fuji no hitoana sōshi was well known in the late Edo period, but whether the book was still regarded in the devotional or talismanic light suggested above remains to be determined. The story was famously parodied: in 1788 Santō Kyōden (1761– 1816) poked fun at the adventure in his kibyōshi, Nitta Shirō Fuji hitoana kenbutsu, and in the same year Hōseidō Kisanji (1735–1813) played on the topos of Hitoana in his Bunbu nidō mangoku dōshi, in Kibyōshi, senryū, kyōka, ed. Tanahashi Masahiro, Suzuki Katsutada, and Uda Toshihiko (Tokyo: Shōgakkan, 1999), esp. 134–136.

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87.  Royall Tyler has discussed in detail the nearly intractable problem of the historicity of Kakugyō Tōbutsu’s life story and the significance of his legend for the later Fuji movement (Fujikō); see his “Great Practice,” esp. 256–264. In this study I take a conservative approach to sources related to Kakugyō, relying mostly on works that can be reasonably attributed to the founder himself, although (as in this instance) I occasionally note elements in the traditional biography that resonate with earlier sources. In addition to his ominuki and fusegi (discussed in this and the next chapter) a number of fragmentary writings are believed to be authored by Kakugyō himself: (i) an autobiographical note, reproduced in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 56, trans. Tyler, “Great Practice,” 254; (ii) a second note, dated Tenshō 8 [1580].1.3, consisting of a list of Kakugyō’s ascetic practices, reproduced in Itō Kenkichi, “Kakugyō Tōbutsu kū ki to Kakugyō kankei monjo ni tsuite,” NST 67:647, trans. Tyler, “Great Practice,” 278; (iii) a piece titled Hibi no kokoro-e, reproduced in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 64–66; and (iv) Shoshinbō no maki, excerpted in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 58–59. The 1880 Fusō nenpu taigyō no maki, reproduced in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 46–51 (and later revised under the title, Fusōkyōso nenpu), draws on the above and other sources. 88.  Gotaigyō, NST 67:454; trans. Tyler, “Great Practice,” 286. 89.  The practice is described in Gotaigyō, NST 67:455–456; trans. Tyler, “Great Practice,” 287–289. 90.  Tyler, “Great Practice,” 272. 91.  Tyler, “Great Practice,” 271, and see esp. note 19. Tyler adds that the cave was “central to the locality’s ancestral cult.” 92.  In contrast, although Fuji no hitoana sōshi is full of allusions to the importance of seeking rebirth in the Pure Land, the text is dominated by description of the horrors of the lower karmic realms; the cave itself is not clearly characterized as the locus of the Pure Land. For the relatively brief description of the “better places” that Nitta is shown, see Kimbrough, trans., “Fuji Cave,” 214. 93.  For these two examples, see the reproductions in NST 67:468, 482–483, respectively. The quoted words in the latter example appear in the lower part of the drawing, under the torii (see figure 1.5, discussed further in the next section). 94.  Getsugan’s image-text is treated below, in reference to figure 1.7. 95.  For a reproduction, see FYSS 5, Kinsei 3:456 and the fifth frontispiece of the volume. Jikigyō also calls Hitoana “the revered Pure Land” (Jōdo-sama) in his Ichiji fusetsu no maki, in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 501a. 96.  “Pure Land” appears repeatedly in Gotaigyō no maki as an epithet for both Hitoana and the mountain. The block that Kakugyō stood on during his austerities in the cave is similarly tagged “Pure Land.” See, e.g., Gotaigyō, NST 67:456, 459, 481. The episodes in the biography in which the celebrated founder of the Tokugawa shogunate miraculously appears inside Hitoana and converses with Kakugyō also signal the positive view of the cave in this late Tokugawa text. See Gotaigyō, NST 67:473–378; trans. Tyler, “Great Practice,” 307–312, for the fictionalized meetings, dated in the text to the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. By the last decades of the Edo period the commercial guidebooks and maps that targeted Fuji pilgrims in general also routinely marked the cave “Pure Land Hitoana” or “Pure Land Mountain Hitoana,” without dwelling on its fabled hell-tour function. For a reproduction of the image of the Hitoana site in Nagashima Taigyō’s 1847 guidebook, Fujisan shinkei no zu, marked “Pure Land Mountain Hitoana,” see the modern print edition under the title Fujisan shinkei no zu: Edo jidai sankei emaki, ed. Okada Hiroshi (Tokyo: Meicho Shuppan, 1985), 78–79.

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97.  According to Yamamoto Shino, an account written in the early eighteenth century, before Fujikō took hold on a broad scale, reveals that the interior of Hitoana had not changed much from its medieval condition: it was still rarely visited and full of bats; Yamamoto, “Fuji no seichi,” 234. However, individual practitioners, notably the Fuji group leader, Murayama Kōsei, did make regular use of the cave around this time. According to Kōsei’s own account, Hitoana shugyō ki (dated 1727), he and a disciple practiced twenty-one-day confinement disciplines (komorigyō) in the cave either once or twice a year from 1721 to 1726. Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 72. Regarding Gotainai, see also chapter 3 of this volume. 98.  Miyata Noboru, Edo saijiki (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2007), 168–170. An 1823 report indicates that the cave had been refurbished by this time: a couple of spots had been set up for lengthy confinements, a plank of wood had been laid to walk on, and stone figures of Benzaiten, Dainichi, and Amida had been installed. Yamamoto, “Fuji no seiichi,” 236. As noted, the cave is also mentioned in popular guidebooks aimed at Fuji pilgrims, notably the aforementioned 1847 Fujisan shinkei no zu by the sendatsu Nagashima Taigyō, and the 1860 Fujisan michishirube by Matsuzono Umehiko, illustrated by Hashimoto Sadahide (Utagawa Gyokuransai, 1807–1879?). A rendition of the latter appears in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 403–412, and in FYSS 5, Kinsei 3:332–447. 99.  The tract, titled Fujisan hitoana sōshi, is undated but may have been issued in 1832 in association with the centennial commemoration of Jikigyō Miroku’s death. Yamamoto argues that the Akaike family, who were hereditary headmen of the village of Hitoana and operated pilgrimage lodgings in the vicinity, likely promoted a positive “Pure Land” characterization of the cave in order to attract visitors and thus, presumably, income. Yamamoto, “Fuji no seiichi,” 234–236. 100.  The fortitudinous pilgrims who reached the summit of Mount Fuji were thus said to have “attained the Eight Petals” (hachiyō mesareru). Horiuchi, “Fujikō seiritsu,” 282. The expression “eight petals” was also used in Japan to identify the peaks of revered mountains with the Pure Land paradise of Amida. 101.  The esoteric deities identified with the eight petals listed in these texts are the four buddhas of the four quarters of the mandala, Hōshō (Ratnasambhava), Kaifu Keō, Muryōju (Amitābha), and Tenku Raion; plus the four bodhisattvas, Samantabhadra, Mañjuśrī, Avalokiteśvara, and Maitreya. The gods correlated with these (and other) “original ground” (honji) buddhas and bodhisattvas include those enshrined at Kumano, Suwa, Kibune, Hakone, Kashima, Hakusan, Sumiyoshi, and Kasuga, as well as Omuro and Chūgū on Mount Fuji. Horiuchi, “Fujikō seiritsu,” 288–289. 102.  Much has been published on artwork that depicts Mount Fuji. For a treatment of this aesthetic idealization over time, see, e.g., Hirose Fujio, Fujisan no kaigashi (Tokyo: Chūōkōron Bijutsu Shuppan, 2005). 103.  Hirano, Fuji shinkō, 47–48. The definition and classification of sankei mandara vary widely. See, e.g., Miyake Toshiyuki, “Fuji mandara to kyōten mainō,” in Shugendō no bijutsu, geinō, bungaku, ed. Gorai Shigeru (1970; reprint, Tokyo: Meicho Shuppan, 2000), 434–435. A good recent discussion of the various defining criteria appears in Andrei, “Mapping Sacred Spaces,” chapter 1, esp. 15–23. With regard to mountain mandalas in particular, in English see the now classic essays by Anna Seidel, “Mountains and Hells: Religious Geography in Japanese Mandara Paintings,” Studies in Central and East Asian Religions: Journal of the Seminar for Buddhist Studies 5–6 (1992): 122–133; and Allan Grapard, “Flying Mountains and Walkers of Emptiness: Toward a Definition of Sacred Space in Japanese Religions,” History of Religions 21,

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no. 3 (Feb. 1982): 195–221. Also see Moerman, Localizing Paradise (especially regarding the Nachi sankei mandara); Elizabeth ten Grotenhuis, Japanese Mandalas: Representations of Sacred Geography (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1999) 172–179; and Talia Andrei, “Sankei Mandara: Layered Maps to Sacred Places,” Cross-Currents: East Asian History and Culture Review (e-journal) 23 (June 2017): 40–72. 104.  Ikumi Kaminishi, Explaining Pictures: Buddhist Propaganda and Etoki Storytelling in Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2006), 12. 105.  Fuji sankei mandara were not treated as such until the mid-twentieth century, in Kondō Yoshihiro’s seminal discussions. See his “Fuji mandara to shinkō,” [Kikan] Shintō shigaku 2 (1951): 24–29; and the expanded treatment in “Fuji Sengen mandara zusetsu,” Shintō shūkyō 65–66 (1972): 97–110. Also see Tanaka Fumio, “Fuji mandara zu,” Shizuoka Kenritsu Bijutsukan kiyo (1984): 8–18; Miyake Toshiyuki, “Fuji mandara to kyōten mainō,” esp. 421– 435; and Ōtaka, Fujisan shinkō, 313–337, including his useful list of studies of Fuji pilgrimage mandalas on 332–333n3. Scholars have dated at least six Fuji sankei mandara to the late medieval and early modern periods. In addition to the two mentioned here, another exemplar on silk and two on paper originated in the early Edo period. Andrei analyzes these works in her informative “Mapping Spaces,” 135–150. An additional Fuji mandara on paper is discussed by Ōtaka Yasumasa in his article, “Fujisan no sankei mandara o etoku: Jūyō bunkazai shitei hon to shinshutsu Shōeiji hon,” Shūbi 18 (2016): 10–21. My thanks to Talia Andrei for alerting me to the existence of this mandara and sharing Ōtaka’s article with me. 106.  Ōtaka speculates that this work was originally commissioned by a person or institution of high rank, perhaps the Suruga daimyo and/or Shōgoin, but that later changes to the painting may have been sponsored by Murayama shuto and/or shrine priests at Ōmiya; Ōtaka, Sankei mandara, 244–245. 107.  The Murayama Shugendō structures are subtly indicated by their roofs in the upper central and right-hand portions of the image, just below the tree line. The image of a performing miko probably also signals the Shugendō precincts. See Ōtaka, Fujisan, 321–322. 108.  Ōtaka, Fujisan, 319–321, provides a full description of the identities of the various figures. Andrei includes detailed analyses of both of the above Fuji sankei mandara in her “Mapping Spaces,” 89–152. 109.  Ōtaka, Fujisan, 319–320, 330–331. The prefectural mandara appears not to have come into the possession of the Main Shrine until 1942, when it was acquired in Kyoto. 110.  Hirano, Fuji shinkō, 49. Some art historians have accordingly classified Fuji sankei mandara as etoki paintings; Kaminishi, Explaining Pictures, 12. We bear in mind, however, that like other medieval Japanese preachers, when traveling in the provinces representatives of the Fuji pilgrimage establishment likely carried paper-based versions of the mandara, which would have been more portable and easily reproduced than the large paintings on silk. Extant Fuji sankei mandara on paper indeed show signs of having been moved around in this way. Tanaka, “Fuji mandara zu,” 12; Andrei, “Mapping Spaces,” 149–150. The recently discovered Fuji sankei mandara, held by the Tendai temple, Shōeiji, in Aichi Prefecture, which Ōtaka dates between 1602.6 and 1606.6, was surely used to edify large audiences, given its size (178.6 x 144.6 cm.), medium (color on paper), and descriptive quality. For details about this work, see Ōtaka,“Fujisan no sankei mandara o etoku.” 111.  Hirano, Fuji shinkō, 52. 112.  The prefectural Fuji sankei mandara is again the outlier in this regard. It displays neither deities nor celestial bodies.

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113.  There is no consensus on the identity of the depicted deities in this work; see Andrei, “Mapping Spaces,” 121, including note 278. According to one view, the buddhas are, from right to left, Dainichi, Amida, and Yakushi. 114.  I thank Caleb Carter for stressing to me the comparability of the mandara and the later fujizuka. 115.  The Tateyama mandara provides a well-known contrast in this regard. See Caroline Hirasawa’s engaging study, Hell-Bent for Heaven in Tateyama Mandara: Painting and Religious Practice at a Japanese Mountain (Leiden: Brill, 2013); and Seidel, “Mountains and Hells,” esp. 126. The lower register of the Fuji mandara in the collection of Takeuchi Naoji, which Miyake Toshiyuki tentatively dates to the last decades of the sixteenth century, does display two demons carting sinners off to hell; Miyake Toshiyuki, Fuji mandara to kyōten mainō, 430. 116.  “Gong strikers” (kane-tataki) rhythmically accompanied recitation of Amida’s name or other holy text. Participation in arrow prognostication was apparently another option for pilgrims in the early stages of their climb: the upper central stratum of the mandala displays eight figures bearing archery equipment. See Ōtaka, Fujisan shinkō, 320, 323, 324. A biwa is a four-stringed Japanese lute. 117.  See Ōtaka, Fujisan, 324–328, regarding itinerant fundraising on behalf of the Main Shrine (kanjin or hongan). The Shōeiji Fuji sankei mandara also suggests solicitation activity at the terminus of the descent route, near the spot where pilgrims may have performed their closing cold-water purification in the upper reaches of the Urui River. Ōtaka, “Fujisan no sankei mandara,” 19–20. 118.  Regarding the political function of maps in this sense, see J. B. Harley, “Maps, Knowledge, Power,” in The New Nature of Maps: Essays in the History of Cartography, ed. Paul Laxton (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 51–82. 119.  On the exclusion of female climbers from Mount Fuji, see Miyazaki Fumiko’s ground-breaking studies, especially “Fujisan ni okeru nyonin kinsei to sono shūen,” Kan 12 (Winter 2003): 271–283; and “Female Pilgrims and Mount Fuji: Changing Perspectives on the Exclusion of Women,” Monumenta Nipponica 60, no. 3 (Autumn 2005): 339–391. 120.  Ōtaka theorizes that the images of the female pilgrims were added to the Kanō painting to help promote visits to the shrine in the special ennen (kōshin year) of 1560; Ōtaka, Sankei mandara, esp. 234–236, 241. The miko may have served in a ritual capacity in collaboration with the Kōhōji yamabushi; the structures to the right of the miko in the prefectural mandala are Murayama Shugendō lodgings. A few shrine priests (some of whom wear black eboshi hats) are visible primarily in or near the Main Shrine precincts, while figures in black overclothes, presumably Buddhist priests, appear in various places in the lower trail area (in the Kanō painting). For further analysis of the figures in the prefectural mandara, see again Ōtaka, Fujisan shinkō, 319–324. 121.  Sanzon kuson zu, literally, “Picture of the Three and Nine Revered Figures,” is undated, but the two-story structure of the main shrine building depicted in the image (a style not in use earlier) indicates that this print postdates the shrine’s 1604 restoration and was likely issued to commemorate the project’s completion. Fujisan no efuda: Goō to miei o chūshin ni, ed. Fujiyoshida-shi Rekishi Minzoku Hakubutsukan (Fujiyoshida-shi: Fujiyoshida-shi Kyōiku Iinkai, 1996), 25. Ogino Yūko argues that it postdates 1757; cited in Fujisan tozan annaizu, ed. Fujiyoshida-shi Rekishi Minzoku Hakubutsukan (Fujiyoshida-shi: Fujiyoshida-shi Kyōiku Iinkai, 2000), 72.

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122.  The “sun and moon” motif in Japanese art and archaeological remains dates at least to the seventh century; for a study of its role in Japanese screen paintings, see Michele Bambling, “The Kongō-ji Screens: Illuminating the Tradition of Yamato-e ‘Sun and Moon’ Screens,” Orientations 27, no. 8 (1996): 70–82. 123.  According to popular belief, the mountain came into being in a kōshin 庚申 or socalled go-ennen year, which is marked in the traditional calendar by the ninth position of the twelve-year cycle, saru 申, a homophone of saru 猿, monkey. Originally there was no other intrinsic connection between monkeys and Mount Fuji devotionalism. The earliest material evidence of the association between the mountain and monkeys is a Fuji goō (ox-bezoar) print inscribed in 1618; see Fujisan no efuda: Goō to miei o chūshin ni, ed. Fujiyoshida-shi Rekishi Minzoku Hakubutsukan, exhibition catalogue (Fujiyoshida-shi: Fujiyoshida-shi Kyōiku Iinkai, 1996), 9. However, later in the Tokugawa period, this reference (by way of the monkey images) to kōshin calendrical observances, which had become very popular in Edo, was further assimilated into Fuji visual culture, a development likely encouraged by Yoshida oshi and shrine personnel who sought to promote the pilgrimage in the kōshin years (which fell every sixty years)—as well as by Fujikō members themselves. Beginning in the kōshin year 1800 the monkeys thus appear more frequently and in greater numbers in Mount Fuji devotional prints. For the above information I have drawn on Fujisan no efuda, 33–34. Kōshin practices involved all-night vigils carried out in the belief (reportedly of Daoist origins) that if one fell asleep during a kōshin night the three worms (sanshi) said to reside in one’s body would report one’s sins to Heaven, and thereby reduce one’s lifespan. 124.  Late Tokugawa pilgrimage images of Mount Fuji called zenjō no zu (literally, “samādhi pictures”) or annai ezu (pictorial guide maps) nonetheless persistently depict the Shugendō temples on the southern trail (often in the central portion of the picture). See Ogino, “Fujisan Minami-guchi annai ezu,” 23–24; and the editors’ comments in Fujisan tozan annaizu, ed. Fujiyoshida-shi Rekishi Minzoku Hakubutsukan, exhibition catalogue (Fujiyoshidashi: Fujiyoshida-shi Kyōiku Iinkai, 2000), 72. Along with Tsujinobō, Daikyōbō, and Chiseibō, and the Main Sengen Shrine, many later zenjō no zu depict the Dainichi Hall and the Daitōryō deity worship sites (associated with Murayama Shugendō). It was only after the early Meiji campaign against combinative worship of buddhas and kami, and the corollary prohibition of Shugendō that pilgrimage maps of the omoteguchi completely omitted the Murayama structures. Fujisan tozan annaizu, 82. 125.  For brief information about Hachiyō kuson zu (Picture of the Eight Petals and Nine Deities), see Fujisan no efuda, 13, and Fujisan tozan annaizu, 69. 126.  The nine buddhas in the Hachiyō kuson zu version of the mandalic retinue are Yakushi, Kannon, Seishi, Jizō, Dainichi, Amida, Monju, Shaka, and Fugen. 127.  In Fujisan hachiyō kuson (The Eight Petals and Nine Deities of Mount Fuji) Dainichi appears in the center, surrounded again by Monju, Amida, Jizō, Shaka, Kannon, Yakushi, Seishi, and Fugen. Note that the blocks used to print both of these portable works are held by Shōfukuji, a True Pure Land temple in Fujiyoshida-shi that is said to have been esoteric Buddhist at the time of the blocks’ production. See Fujisan no efuda, 13; Fujisan tozan annaizu, 69; and Horiuchi, “Fujikō seiritsu,” 301. 128.  A miei is a representation of a deity or revered figure, with minimal text—usually the figure’s honorific name or title and perhaps a short verse or abbreviated statement of faith. The genre is variously defined, however. Miyake Toshiyuki points out that while the earlier Fuji mandalas generally emphasize the pilgrimage experience centered on the Main Shrine, the

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pictorial works that circulated after Fujikō became popular in the late eighteenth century are mostly concerned with promoting the movement’s teachings. He considers these items small “Fuji mandalas”—they were distributed widely, anticipating Mount Fuji picture-cards (efuda). Miyake Toshiyuki, “Fuji mandara to kyōten mainō,” 433–435. The mountain still appears in the upper half of these pictures, as it does in the earlier Fuji religious works, but images of the groups’ leaders, especially the designated founder, Kakugyō Tōbutsu, and his most important successor, Jikigyō Miroku, are inserted into the lower half, while the pilgrimage routes are not depicted at all. These later works are in fact miei rather than true pilgrimage mandalas; they were issued by temples, shrines, and hostels in the mountain’s catchment area and were circulated among kō members, who reportedly hung them and performed worship rituals in front of them. Fujisan no efuda, 16. 129.  On this point, see also Hirano, Fuji shinkō, 61–65. Aestheticized pilgrimage maps, usually called annaizu, also came to be produced in considerable numbers as the period wore on, but they had little to no iconic or talismanic function, and many were too complex and labor-intensive to produce for mass distribution. For a collection of the later Tokugawa pilgrimage itineraries, see Fuji tozan annaizu. 130.  Buddhist kanjin (or hongan), especially the variety that involved etoki, integrated both proselytizing and fundraising activities. See Kaminishi, Explaining Pictures, 103–118. 131.  Several are holographs. For reproductions of some of Kakugyō’s signed ominuki and related works, see esp. FYSS 5, Kinsei 3, second frontispiece and document no. 32, “Kakugyō ominuki,” 451; as well as Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 43, 61, 301; and Ōtani Masayuki, Kakugyō-kei, 23. Kakugyō’s later follower Getsugan vouched for the founder’s authorship of these items; Getsugan, Getsugan no maki, 117. 132.  Okada Hiroshi lists several strings of ritual words (gomonku) and apotropaic formulae (fusegi) that were reportedly revealed to Kakugyō; see his “Fujikō to jujutsu,” 196. See also Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 59–60. 133.  Christof Lüthy and Alexis Smets characterize a comparable phenomenon in reference to hieroglyphics: “Only the context will tell you whether the drawings should be read as text or as image.” Christof Lüthy and Alexis Smets, “Words, Lines, Diagrams, Images: Towards a History of Scientific Imagery,” Early Science and Medicine 14, no. 1–3 (2009): 401. For the idea of “image-text,” see W. J. T. Mitchell’s seminal Iconology: Image, Text, Ideology (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1986). 134.  Sometimes an additional sphere appears in the ominuki, symbolizing the stars. Goō hōin (ox-bezoar seals) also share elements of this iconography—especially the crow motif, which harks back to ancient Chinese lore that identifies the three-legged crow with the sun, and in turn to Kumano symbology. Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 61–64, offers an extended discussion of the symbology of the three-legged crow in the ominuki in which he highlights breath, among other possibilities. On the crow theme, see also chapter 2, note 32 of this volume. 135.  The editors of FYSS call the ominuki that Kakugyō received when he performed his onethousand-day austerity in Hitoana a “mandara.” They also cite in this regard the large ominuki that Jikigyō allegedly produced for his disciple, Tanabe Jurōemon (1700–1760). For these and other references to post-Kakugyō ominuki, see FYSS 5, Kinsei 3:1132, and document nos. 33 and 35. 136.  Grapard, “Flying Mountains,” 205. 137.  The neo-ideographs for Moto no Chichihaha (who is identified with Sengen) appear on either side of the summit in most ominuki. For succinct explanations of reverse honji

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suijaku thinking, see Jacqueline I. Stone, Original Enlightenment and the Transformation of Medieval Buddhism (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1999), 42; and Mark Teeuwen and Fabio Rambelli, eds., Buddhas and Kami in Japan: Honji suijaku as a Combinatory Paradigm (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), 35–36. 138.  In three of the four miniature ominuki clusters signed “Getsugan, fourth-generation,” the names and positions of his predecessors in the movement also appear, beginning with Kakugyō. As discussed in chapter 2, Fuji group leaders used their ritual texts (not only the ominuki) to certify succession lineage within the group. 139.  See, for example, Tamara Solomon, trans., “The Origins of the Suwa Deity (Suwa no honji),” in Monsters, Animals, and Other Worlds: A Collection of Short Medieval Japanese Tales, ed. R. Keller Kimbrough and Haruo Shirane (New York: Columbia University Press, 2018), 174–193. I am indebted to Keller Kimbrough for this observation. 140.  Following Itō Kenkichi and Yasumaru Yoshio’s explication, the ominuki functioned as a kind of yorishiro (an object that can summon and/or substitute for a deity); Murakami and Yasumaru, Minshū shūkyō, NST 67:483, headnote. 141.  E.g., Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 289. 142.  On this trend with reference to talismanic materials generated by various religious institutions, see Josef Kyburz, “Ofuda?” In Ofuda: Images gravées des temples du Japon: La collection Bernard Frank, ed. Josef Kyburz, et al. (Paris: Collège de France, Institut des Hautes Études Japonaises, 2011), esp. 76–78.

Chapter 2: Ritual Appropriation of the Mountain 1.  Kiba Akeshi, “Kinsei sonraku shugen-ha jiin ni tsuite,” Indogaku Bukkyōgaku kenkyū 43 (1973): 181; Kikuchi Takeshi, “Mokujiki (jūkoku, gokoku) kō: Chūsei kara kinsei e no hensen,” Indogaku Bukkyōgaku kenkyū 68 (1986): 217; Miyake Hitoshi, Shugenja to chiiki shakai (Tokyo: Meicho Shuppan, 1981), 29; Takano Toshihiko, “Minkan ni ikiru shūkyōsha,” in Minkan ni ikiru shūkyōsha: Kinsei no mibunteki shūen 1, ed. Takano Toshihiko (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2000), 8. The view that yamabushi and other wandering ritual practitioners became more centralized and less itinerant in the early modern period has been associated especially with the work of Gorai Shigeru. See, however, Murakami Norio’s interrogation of this view (in which he draws on Hayashi Makoto’s “Gorai Shigeru to Bukkyō minzokugaku no kōsō,” Shūkyō minzoku kenkyū 18 [2008]: 47–62), and of Tamamuro Fumio’s related work. Murakami Norio, Kinsei kanjin, 8 and 18, respectively. 2.  See, e.g., Suzuki Masataka, Sangaku shinkō: Nihon bunka no kontei o saguru (Tokyo: Chūōkōron Shinsha, 2015), 146. 3.  Caroline Hirasawa and Benedetta Lomi, “Modest Materialities: The Social Lives and Afterlives of Sacred Things in Japan,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 45, no. 2 (2018): 217–225. 4.  For a survey of the diverse ritual agents and medicant performers of the time, see Nishiyama Matsunosuke, Edo Culture: Daily Life and Diversions in Urban Japan, 1600– 1868, trans. Gerald Groemer (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1997), 113–143. Groemer describes the evolution of the gannin bōzu, or “begging monks,” in particular, in “A Short History of the Gannin: Popular Religious Performers in Tokugawa Japan,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 27, no. 1–2 (2000): 41–72; and “The Arts of the Gannin,” Asian Folklore Studies 58, no. 2 (1999): 275–320.

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5.  Additional terms for prayer are kigan, kinen, kisei. Both kitō and inori appear in eighthcentury works such as the Manyōshū; see Nihon kokugo jiten, edited by Nihon Daijiten Kankōkai, 20 vols. (Tokyo: Shōgakukan, 1976), 4:203a and 1:1302a, respectively. In medieval Japan prayer rituals were common in Buddhist communities (notably in Nichiren Buddhism) and were associated with the distribution of talismans, secret rules for driving away evil spirits, healing rituals, and the like. 6.  Sam D. Gill, “Prayer,” Encyclopedia of Religion, 2nd ed., 11:7368–7369. 7.  Gill, “Prayer,” 7369. 8.  Bukkyōgo daijiten, 3 vols., ed. Nakamura Hajime (Tokyo: Tōkyō Shoseki, 1975), 146a–b. The original Sanskrit term for kaji is adhiṣthāna. See also Pamela D. Winfield, “Curing with Kaji: Healing and Esoteric Empowerment in Japan,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 32, no. 1 (2005): 109. 9.  Fukushima Kunio, “Kaji kitō,” in Shugendō jiten, 56b. Fukushima divides kaji or “blessings” in Shugendō into two types: one involves infusing selected objects (such as items worn on the body or martial instruments) with spiritual power, while the other aims at removing afflictions and illness. The premise of Shugendō kaji kitō in general, according to this and other contemporary accounts, is an intimate relation between the things of this world and the “supernatural” realm, through which power is channeled to the practitioner (who may then use it to eliminate a patient’s troubles). 10.  Judging from extant examples, these items were used more by followers of Murakami Kōsei (1682–1759) than by those of Jikigyō Miroku. Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 290. The split between the so-called Miroku and Murakami lines of Fujikō is briefly discussed in chapter 4. For details about the Murakami branch, see Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 76–106; Ōtani, Kakugyō-kei, 87–91. 11.  Don C. Skemer, Binding Words: Textual Amulets in the Middle Ages (University Park: Pennsylania State University Press, 2006), 6–7. 12.  Tambiah, Buddhist Saints. 13.  Skemer, Binding Words, 8. Skemer wants to restrict the use of the term “charm,” however, to “verbal charms, spells, and incantations for spoken use.” Skemer, Binding Words, 18. 14.  For example, fu, gofu, reifu, jufu, shinpu, satsu, nōsatsu, or, most commonly today, ofuda and omamori. The fu that are fixed to gates, doors, pillars, ceilings, and so forth, are generally called ofuda; if carried on the person, they tend to be called omamori. The term efuda indicates an item of this kind that displays an image of the deity to whom the associated ritual is directed; it may also take the form of a goō or a miei. Shimazaki Ryō, “Fu,” in Shugendō jiten, 322. In the Chinese context, “symbol” and “symbolon” have been proposed as renditions of the character fu (J. fu). Dominic Steavu covers the wide range of meanings of the term in his recent book, The Writ of the Three Sovereigns: From Local Lore to Institutional Daoism (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2019). See also John Lagerwey, Taoist Ritual in Chinese Society and History (New York: MacMillan, 1987), 154–155. 15.  Japanese talismans may also be made of wood, fabric, bamboo leaves, and other materials; whole objects are sometimes considered talismanic in nature, such as kesa (surplices) or special ritual instruments. Miyamoto, “Fuju,” SS 4:85b. 16.  For a succinct analysis of European-language terminology for Japanese items of this kind, see Kyburz, “Ofuda?,” 86–87.

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17.  Catherine Despeux, “Talismans and Diagrams,” in Daoism Handbook, ed. Livia Kohn (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 500. See also Gil Raz, The Emergence of Daoism: Creation of Tradition (London: Routledge, 2012), 128, on the early Chinese origins of Daoist talismans. 18.  Despeux, “Talismans,” 500–501; see also Michel Strickmann, Chinese Magical Medicine (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2002), esp. 123–193; and Stephan Peter Bumbacher, Empowered Writing: Exorcistic and Apotropaic Rituals in Medieval China (St. Petersburg, FL: Three Pines Press, 2012). On Buddhist talismanic writing, see Robson, “Signs of Power.” In Japan as well this type of writing came to span a wide range of styles. See Ōmiya Shirō, Reifu zensho (Tokyo: Gakushū Kenkyūsha, 2008), 48–49, for a collection of talisman models. 19.  D. Max Moerman analyzes the visual materials used by the Kumano bikuni in his Localizing Paradise, chapter 5, esp. 214–221. See also Barbara Ruch, “Medieval Jongleurs,” 299–304; and Kaminishi, Explaining Pictures, 138. 20.  Onmyōdō (literally, the way of yin and yang) was a ritual system based on ancient Chinese correlative cosmological ideas; in the Tokugawa period its practitioners (onmyōji) offered divination, purification, and incantation services. 21.  The content of the Chinese talismans became mostly textual in nature by about the seventh century. For a discussion of written “spells” in medieval China, see Paul Copp, The Body Incantatory: Spells and the Ritual Imagination in Medieval Chinese Buddhism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2014), esp. chapter 1. 22.  Shūji or bīja are believed to represent or embody particular buddhas and bodhisattvas in esoteric Buddhism. Dominic Steavu characterizes the bīja in the Chinese context as “a semi-legible aniconic representation of a deity’s or cosmic entity’s essence” (personal communication, April 13, 2017). 23.  Jiji ru lüling—“quickly, quickly, in accordance with the statutes and ordinances”—is a common Chinese talismanic imperative; see Strickmann, Chinese Magical Medicine, 79–80. For Japanese applications, see Maeda Ryōichi,“ ‘Kyū kyū nyo ritsuryō’ o saguru,” in Dōkyō to higashi Ajia: Chūgoku, Chōsen, Nihon, ed. Senda Minoru et al. (Kyoto: Jinbun Shoin, 1989), 101–125. For a summary of Shugendō apotropaic and exorcistic interpretations, see Miyake Hitoshi, Shugendō girei no kenkyū (1971; rev. ed., Tokyo: Shunjūsha, 1985), 532–534. 24.  See especially Shugen jōyō hihōshū, comp. Shōsai Sonkai, SS 1:216–250; plus Miyamoto Kesao’s remarks on this and related works in Miyake and Nihon, Shugendō shōso kaidai, SS 4:163–165. The slips are imprinted with incantations, ritual prayers, and in some cases explicit statements of methods for driving away possessing spirits and the like. The included materials and associated practices are mostly identified with the Tōzan branch of Shugendō, and were reportedly compiled from twelfth- to sixteenth-century sources. See also Shugen jinpi gyōhō fujushū, SS 2:144–299; and explanatory remarks by Miyamoto in Miyake and Nihon, Shugendō shōso kaidai, SS 4:226. 25.  Miyamoto, “Fuju,” SS 4:85. 26.  Ōmiya, Reifu zensho, 40–42. Much of this description duplicates the instructions contained in Miyake Hitoshi, Shugendō girei, 534–535; see also Nakagawa Ikiko, “Fu,” in Shugendō jiten, 322c. 27.  Miyamoto Kesao suggests that Shugendō talismans designed to prevent illness or difficulties in childbirth were often torn into bits, dissolved in water, and swallowed, whereas those used to banish evil influences were pasted on pillars or buried. Miyamoto, “Fuju,” SS 4:86.

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28.  Miyake Hitoshi, Shugendō girei, 533–534; and for a summary of Miyake’s analysis, Miyamoto, “Fuju,” SS 4:84. 29.  The fusegi are also sometimes called fu or fū in Fujikō sources. Shoshinbō no maki, a document in Kakugyō’s hand, is full of models for writing fusegi. Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 58–59. 30.  The ink used to produce so-called ox-bezoar seals was mixed with the powdered gallstones of an ox, which according to Chinese medical lore possess curative and protective powers. Regarding these kinds of seals in the Chinese context, see Strickmann, Chinese Magical Medicine, 184–186; and Copp, Body Incantatory, 93–94. On the Kumano associations, see Shimazu Norifumi, “Inori no gofu ‘Kumano goō hōin,’ ” Shintō shūkyō 149 (Dec. 1992): 65–68; see also Fukushima Kunio and Nakagawa Ikiko, “Goō hōin,” in Shugendō jiten, 122c–123a. For a stimulating discussion of goō hōin and their uses by Japanese mountain practitioners in the Edo period, including consideration of the term’s orthographic and interpretive variants, see Andrea Castiglioni, “Ascesis and Devotion: The Mount Yudono Cult in Early Modern Japan” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 2015), 175–179. 31.  See Fujisan no efuda, 7, plates 1 and 2 (dated 1548 and 1585, respectively). For a study of the use of goō hōin to record pledges, see Chijiwa Itaru, “Gofu no chōsa—kishōmon to goō hōin o chūshin ni shite,” in Nihon no gofu bunka, ed. Chijiwa Itaru (Tokyo: Kōbundō, 2010), 251–278. I am indebted to D. Max Moerman for this reference and for sharing with me his own research on goō hōin and kishōmon. 32.  It will be recalled that some of Kakugyō’s ominuki display a three-legged crow, which by some accounts was an emissary of the Kumano deity. According to the Kojiki, in the Kumano mountains a heavenly crow (yatagarasu) served as Emperor Jimmu’s guide on his trip to Yamato. As noted in chapter 1, the crow motif may also be an assimilation from the Chinese tradition that a three-legged crow resides in the sun. 33.  The inscription states that Taihō gave the block to an oshi named Kozawa on the seventeenth day of the third month of Genna 4 (1618). For a reproduction of the goō, see Fujisan no efuda, 9 (figure 10), and 21 for commentary. The appearance of the Fuji goō hōin remained fairly consistent through the Edo period, though with occasional variations depending on the particular institution that issued them. Thus, for example, Jōren’in, a temple affiliated with the Murayama Shugendō complex, issued a goō hōin in which Dainichi takes precedence over Amida and his attendant bodhisattvas; see Fujisan no efuda, 11, figures 26 and 27, and commentaries on 22. In many later Tokugawa instantiations, however, the Fuji seal (typically a vertical presentation) displays the Amida triad in the upper tier of the image—and in some cases the title “Sangoku daiichi” or “daiissan” (First [Mountain] of the Three Countries) instead of “Fujisan.” Several later examples also add a pair of monkeys facing each other in the lower third of the image (recalling the Sanzon kuson zu; see plate 5). For examples of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Mount Fuji goō hōin, see again Fujisan no efuda, 9. 34.  Regarding Daoist models, see Raz, Emergence of Daoism, 129; and for more Japanese mountain ascetic examples, Shugen jōyō hihōshū, ed. Sonkai and Nakano; and Shugen jinpi gyōhō fujushū, ed. Nakano. 35.  Takeya Yukie observes that the mountain became the distinct focus of Mount Fuji art in general (as opposed to the mountain being only one component of a more general landscape) in the Muromachi period; “ ‘Fujisan’ no ikonorojī to Nihonjin no shinsei,” in Amano and Sawato, Fujisan to Nihonjin no shinsei, 24.

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36.  Instructions on how to use talismans for healing and exorcism accompany the recorded formulae in both the Shugendō manuals and Fujikō collections of the nineteenth century, but this type of metadiscourse was not characteristic of Fuji image-texts in the early Edo period. 37.  To my knowledge the exact number and locations of all Kakugyō’s extant works have not been systematically surveyed. Photographic reproductions of ritual writings signed by or reasonably attributed to him are reproduced in several publications (e.g., Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, third frontispiece; 42, 54, 61). 38.  Gotaigyō, NST 67:461; trans. Tyler, “Great Practice,” 294. 39.  Gotaigyō, NST 67:464–465; trans. Tyler, “Great Practice,” 299. 40.  Before he took the name Nichigan, Kurono Unpei was known in the group as Keigan, and later as Engan. Interpretation of the identity of Kakugyō’s successors varies according to the source. The Meiji-period chronology Fusōkyōso nenpu, compiled by Ozawa Hikoji in 1883, 2:3a–b, lists eight direct disciples in addition to Nichigan, one of whom was called Hankei (1607–1674). But only Taihō and Nichigan are named in Gotaigyō no maki or appear in later lineage charts. (See below, note 55, regarding the reliability of Fusōkyōso nenpu.) See also Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, esp. 80, for related lineage information contained in Senshūin kakochō, a mid-nineteenth-century record preserved in Murakami Kōsei’s ancestral temple, Senshūin. 41.  Gotaigyō, NST 67:471; trans. Tyler, “Great Practice,” 305. As Tyler notes, based on other renditions of Kakugyō’s life, Iwashina identifies Taihō’s disease as epilepsy. 42.  This information is based on Ozawa, Fusōkyōso nenpu, 2:3a-b. 43.  Gotaigyō, NST 67:471–472. 44.  Kakugyō and his disciples are said to have completed these disciplines in various locations in Japan, sometimes at a considerable distance from Mount Fuji. In order to cure Nichigan, for example, Kakugyō and Taihō spent three weeks practicing at Lake Chūzenji, in the mountains near Nikkō (in today’s Tochigi Prefecture). Carrying out austerities on the slopes of Mount Fuji itself was not necessarily a required element of the group’s ascetic program in its incipient phase. 45.  Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 77, 83. 46.  The disease is identified in the text only as tsukitaoshi, which connotes being toppled to the ground or collapsing. See Gotaigyō, NST 67:479; trans. Tyler, “Great Practice,” 314. As Tyler adds, Ozawa’s Fusokyōso nenpu identifies the sickness as cholera, but there is no evidence of cholera in Japan prior to the early nineteenth century; Tyler, “Great Practice,” 327, 188. I have also consulted William Johnston, “The Shifting Epistemological Foundations of Cholera Control in Japan (1822–1900),” Extrême-Orient Extrême-Occident 37: Penser les épidémies depuis la Chine, le Japon et la Corée (2014): 171–196. 47.  Gotaigyō, NST 67:479; translation adapted from Tyler, “Great Practice,” 314; brackets in the original. Tyler interprets “kuyō” as one collective memorial rite carried out for the thousand deceased people. Needless to say, it is debatable whether these lay mountain ascetics could have conducted a formal memorial service of this scale over a span of three days without prior sectarian affiliation or authorization of some kind. However, the putative early date of the event, before the eventual Tokugawa religious controls were fully in place, and/or the further report in the Book that the healing prompted the authorities to summon the three ascetics for questioning, argues for some elemental truth in the account. (This incident is discussed further in chapter 5.)

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48.  See Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 113. 49.  Getsugan koji kuji no maki is reproduced in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 114–127. During the twentieth century a group of dedicated Japanese scholars and local researchers, including Iwashina Koichirō, discovered a number of materials in archives preserved by the families of mountain guides, pilgrimage agents, and priests affiliated with the Mount Fuji Sengen shrines. The head priest of the Kitaguchi Sengen Shrine at the time gave the researchers access to a large cache of texts, from which they photographed as many selections as possible. Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 111. Getsugan no maki is one of the documents that came to light on this occasion. In Iwashina’s transcription the report is dated the sixth day of the second month of Jōkyō 1 (1684). 50.  Getsugan, Getsugan no maki, 118. 51.  Getsugan relates that late in the twelfth month of Tenna 2, Edo was devastated by an extensive fire that damaged his house. (The so-called Great Fire of Tenna is dated to the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth lunar month, which corresponds to January 25, 1683.) In the fire’s aftermath, Gonzaemon paid Getsugan a sympathy call and invited him to Ashikaga to visit revered sites in the vicinity; Getsugan arrived in Ōtsuki on the seventh day of the fifth month of Tenna 3 (1683). Getsugan, Getsugan no maki, 119. 52.  Getsugan, Getsugan no maki, 119. Ōmachi Masami et al., eds., Tochigi-ken no rekishi, (Tokyo: Yamakawa Shuppansha, 1977), 200–207, summarizes peasant unrest provoked by onerous taxation measures in various parts of Shimotsuke during the early Edo period. 53.  The early waves of pilgrims (at both the southern and northern approaches) included individuals from sites in both eastern and western Honshū. For more details, and with reference to later periods, see Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 31–39. 54.  For a photograph of the stone marker, see Nihon sekibutsu zuten, ed. Nihon Sekibutsu Kyōkai (Tokyo: Kokusho Kankōkai, 1986), 327b. In the medieval period the Yoshida oshi tended to concentrate their outreach activities in the eastern Kantō area; Horiuchi, “Fujikō seiritsu,” 287. For example, Horiuchi’s map of Yoshida danna locations pinpoints the towns of Yūki and Shimotsuma (in Shimōsa and Hitachi provinces, respectively); “Fuji ni tsudou kokoro,” 135. See also Yūki-shi shi, ed. Yūki-shi Shi Hensan Iinkai, vol. 1, Kodai chūsei shiryō hen (Yūki-shi: Yūki-shi, 1977), 292, which documents Yoshida oshi activity in Yūki in 1592. 55.  The province of Shimōsa corresponds to today’s northern Chiba and southwestern Ibaraki Prefectures. In Shimotsuke, Kakugyō’s activities reportedly took place mostly in Ashikaga, but also at Futarayama, Imaichi, and at the Sanowatarase River; Ozawa, Fusōkyōso nenpu, 1:5a. The compiler of Fusōkyōso nenpu, Ozawa Hikoji (1823–1905), was a senior Yoshida oshi who belonged to Fusōkyō, an organization designated by the Meiji government as a Shinto sect that incorporated various Fujikō successor groups. As a source the compilation must be treated with caution because it draws on a variety of nonextant and unidentified sources, most of which originated later than the events they recount, and because of possible sectarian bias. The information that I cite here about Shimotsuke Fuji devotees, however, is unusually detailed (insofar as it provides names and locations) and not particularly hagiographic in tone. Moreover, as indicated below, the late seventeenth-century text Getsugan no maki documents early connections between Kakugyō’s followers and Shimotsuke. The Fusōkyōso nenpu narratives about Kakugyō himself are less reliable; they may draw on the late Tokugawa hagiography Gotaigyō no maki, or on the latter’s unverified sources. For a discussion and content analysis of the Fusōkyōso nenpu, see Ōtani Masayuki, “Meiji shoki no Fusōkyō to Fuji shinkō: Fusōkyōso nenpu ni miru Kakugyō-kei shūkyō denshō (2),” Bukkyō

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Bunka Gakkai kiyō 4 (Nov. 2000): 199–227. Ōtani points out that the details about the Ashikaga activities (which are not described in Gotaigyō) may reflect later connections between Fusōkyō and Ashikaga; some individuals named in the margin notes of the original text of the Nenpu were leading Ashikaga members of Fusōkyō; Ōtani, “Meiji shoki no Fusōkyō to Fuji shinkō,” 218. 56.  Ozawa, Fusōkyōso nenpu, 1:4b. In addition to Ayuba, the family names of the cited converts are Hasegawa, Fukuchi, and Takada. Kakugyō is also said to have had two disciples from Shimōsa (the brothers Gankei and Ganbō); Ozawa, Fusōkyō nenpu, 2:3b. Yurushi are discussed below. 57.  Ozawa, Fusōkyō nenpu, 1:6b. 58.  Ozawa, Fusōkyōso nenpu, 1:7b. 59.  Ozawa, Fusōkyōso nenpu, 1:3a–b; 2:4a. Two of Kakugyō’s other disciples, Taisei and Ganken, were also from Ashikaga, the latter from Ōtsuki in particular. Ganken’s regular name was Hasegawa Shin’uemon; he may have belonged to the Hasegawa family of Ōtsuki listed above. Ozawa, Fusōkyōso nenpu, 2:3a–3b. Ozawa also avers that several volumes of otsutae (written transmissions of the teaching) had been found in Ōtsuki by the time of his writing (1883). Ozawa, Fusōkyōso nenpu, 1:5b 60.  Ozawa credits Kakugyō with establishing the practice of fujigori in this area, but as noted in chapter 1 the ritual was performed in the early Edo period in several other parts of Japan, such as Kyoto, without any apparent connection to Kakugyō or his disciples. Ozawa, Fusōkyōso nenpu, 1:5b. 61.  Getsugan, Getsugan no maki, 114. Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 119, displays a photo­ reproduction of this ominuki (figure B). 62.  She agreed to send the ominuki to them later that year (1683). 63.  Sansuke possessed a silkworm amulet as well. Getsugan, Getsugan no maki, 117. 64.  Getsugan, Getsugan no maki, 118. 65.  Getsugan, Getsugan no maki, 117. 66.  Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 83, seems to draw a similar conclusion based on his reading of the temple register Senshūin kakochō. 67.  This type of reasoning has been applied to nonideographic ritual language. Frits Staal once took the position that all mantras are fundamentally nonlinguistic. See, e.g., his “Vedic Mantras,” in Mantra, ed. Harvey P. Alper (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1989), 74, 811, 95, and passim; but cf. Patton E. Burchett, “The ‘Magical’ Language of Mantra,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 76, no. 4 (Dec. 2008): 826–829. See also George Thompson, “On Mantras and Frits Staal,” Journal of Ritual Studies 9, no. 2 (1995): 23–44; and Caroline Humphrey and James Laidlaw, The Archetypal Actions of Ritual: A Theory of Ritual Illustrated by the Jain Rite of Worship (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), in which the authors argue for a revised version of the Staal theory. I thank Finnian Moore-Gerety for introducing me to these last two works. 68.  On the Chinese phenomenon, see Raz, The Emergence of Daoism, 139. 69.  See Stanley J. Tambiah’s classic essay “The Magical Power of Words,” Man 3, no. 2 (1968), esp. 179. 70.  Once the Fuji movement expanded, the revealed pronunciations lost their esoteric character; later editions of the ominuki supply kana readings for the idiosyncratic characters. 71.  In some cases, at least later in the period, the special phrases to be recited during a healing event, for example, were listed in appended instructions rather than included on the

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fusegi sheet itself. Thus an amulet against pestilence directs users to address their request for protection from illness to the “Ominuki of the Three Scrolls in One” (Sanpuku ittai no ominuki) and to “energetically proclaim” eight sets of gomonku: the Divine Writing, the Inner Eight Lakes, the Outer Eight Lakes, the Water Words, the Ominuki Words, the BodyHardening Words, the Divine Song Words, and the Father-and-Mother Fuji Words. For this list, see Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 312. 72.  Seigyō Tokuzan, “Kazebarai no fusegi,” excerpt from Seigyō, Seigyō kū yuishin dokuga densho, in Gotaigyō no koto, ed. Kotani Sanshi, 1805, in Shimoda-ke monjo (Kawaguchi Shiritsu Bunkazai Sentā Bunkan Kyōdo Shiryōkan, Kawaguchi-shi), microfilm ken 2–1, F-35, frame 037. I am much indebted to Okada Hiroshi for procuring a photocopy of the microfilm of this work for me from the collection of Hatogaya-shi Kyōdo Shiryōkan (now part of the Kawaguchi Kyōdo Shiryōkan). A modern print version appears under the same title in Fujidō kihon bunken shū, Hatogaya-shi no komonjo 4 (Hatogaya-shi: Hatogaya-shi Kyōiku Iinkai, 1978), 24b, but comparison with the cursive text in the Shimoda monjo collection reveals some errors and omissions. Seigyō is believed to have transmitted the Fuji teachings to Kotani Sanshi (1765–1841), the founder of Fujidō. 73.  Reports from the late Edo period indicate that Fujikō healers intoned the special formulae indicated on the talismans while facing a ceremonial display of the three hanging scrolls (Gosanpuku) customarily used in the group’s worship. The ominuki scroll occupied the central position in the triad, flanked on the left by a scroll depicting Konohana-sakuya-hime and on the right by an image of the deity of Komitake. See Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 289. 74.  Seigyō, “Kazebarai no fusegi.” Seigyō’s version of the text differs slightly from the version in the annotated text of Gotaigyō, NST 67:465. Royall Tyler has valiantly translated the latter edition of these lines, and the relevant portions of my translation are heavily indebted to his rendition; Tyler, “Great Practice,” 299. The Shimoda-ke monjo version of Seigyō’s text reads, “Jinshin no oya no okage Fuji hachiyō Sengen Daibosatsu no ochikara namu Chōjitsu Gakkō-butsu no hōben wa banpō no akari nite zen’aku seijin shinmei no mitake no monsei kōkū taisoku no fusegi myōō sokutai no fusegi.” The character tai 体 is elided from the Hatogaya-shi no komonjo edition. 75.  According to one twentieth-century Fujikō leader (the head of the Marutō  kō), the ritual vocalization of the ominuki (specifically, Jikigyō Miroku’s Gogyō ominuki; see figure 3.2) begins with the line in the central axis, moves on to the line immediately to the right of the axis, then proceeds to the line to its immediate left, then to the line on the far left of the ominuki, and concludes with the line on the far right. Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 291–292. 76.  It was likely read off as “kō,” or perhaps “ku.” Yakubyō hayabiki shiyō (Method for quickly driving away contagious diseases) is excerpted from a collection titled Hi no gohiden, dated 1860; reproduced in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 311. The twelve circles surrounding two gridlike symbols on either side of the upper central string may represent the stars encircling the moon and sun. The talisman recalls Daoist preferences for long lines of special characters (e.g., “fire,” “light,” “cinnabar,” “water”) and for patterns of small circles that indicate stars or constellations. See Despeux, “Talismans,” 534. 77.  Here, too, Seigyō follows Kakugyō’s template; cf. Gotaigyō, NST 67:465. 78.  The reiteration of soku, for example, conjures up the oft-recited Heart Sutra (Hannya shingyō). In one of Kakugyō’s ominuki, in the central axis under the mountain the following string appears: “Ten kōkū taisoku myōō hiki ō-ō man gadai.” The second string from the right

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Notes to Pages 80–85

under the mountain reads, “Kōkū taisoku myōō sokutai jippō kōkū shin na getsu daiga nichi.” See the reproduction in Gotaigyō, NST 67:458. 79.  Ryūichi Abé, “Word,” in Critical Terms for the Study of Buddhism, ed. Donald S. Lopez, Jr. (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 307. 80.  Seth L. Sanders, “Performative Utterances and Divine Language in Ugaritic,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 63, no. 3 (July 2004): 174. Sanders goes on to posit that “human language, even magic and ritual language, does not work the same way” as this cosmic or divine language. Sanders, “Performative Utterances,” 181. 81.  Burchett, “ ‘Magical’ Language,” 836 (he draws on Michael Taussig in this regard). The idea of yielding to the deity through ritual also resonates with Shimazono’s characterization (mentioned in the introduction) of the dynamic in some new religions whereby the practitioners gain agency by surrendering themselves to an all-powerful deity. Shimazono, Gendai shūkyōron, 147. 82.  Gotaigyō, NST 67:465; trans. Tyler, “Great Practice,” 299. Seigyō’s “Kazebarai no fusegi” reads the same as the Gotaigyō version but uses alternative ideographs. 83.  For a parallel, see Sanders, “Performative Utterances,” 164. 84.  The neo-ideograph kū, which has no clear denotation, was also regularly attached as an honorific suffix to the names of the group’s religious leaders. 85.  “Myōtō Kaisan” is the title of Mount Fuji revealed to Kakugyō. From the late seventeenth century, the character san 参 was added to the name, resulting in “San Myōtō Kaisan.” San is also homophonous with other characters deemed meaningful in Fuji religious discourse, such as “three” 三 and “birth” 産. 86.  Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 304. 87.  See, e.g., Duncan Ryūken Williams, The Other Side of Zen: A Social History of Sōtō Zen Buddhism in Tokugawa Japan (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2005), 86–116, regarding similar practices in Sōtō Zen-affiliated groups during the Edo period. See Copp, The Body Incantatory, for an extended analysis of the material dimension of transformative formulae in the Chinese Buddhist context. 88.  This configuration of character elements might also conceivably be read nichidai satsuki, tai gogatsu, or any number of more arbitrary alternatives. 89.  Raz, The Emergence of Daoism, 142. See also Stephen R. Bokenkamp, “Fu: Talisman, Tally, Charm,” in The Encyclopedia of Taoism, ed. Fabrizio Pregadio (London: Routledge, 2008), 1:36. 90.  Even though Kakugyō’s ominuki provided the blueprint for subsequent interpretive interventions, the canon was never really “closed.” In Fujikō they possessed the status and authority of scripture, but in a more fluid sense of the term than is often associated with the revealed texts of the Abrahamic traditions. For discussion of issues related to the closed or open status of Christian and Muslim scriptures, respectively, see, e.g, John R. Franke, “Postmodern Reformed Dogmatics: Scripture, Tradition, and the Confessional Character of Theology,” Reformation and Revival 13, no. 4 (Fall 2004): 111; and Daniel A. Madigan, The Qur’ân’s Self-Image: Writing and Authority in Islam’s Scripture (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), 13–52. 91.  See Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, esp. 308–310, for examples of such formulae in the 1860 Fuji talisman collection Hi no gohiden nōkan (Secret Transmissions of the Sun). (Note that some of the talismanic applications in this late Edo compilation instruct the user to include the aforementioned Daoist/Shugendō coda, kyu kyu nyo ritsu rei [sic] in their recitation.)

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92.  See, e.g., William Bodiford, “When Secrecy Ends: The Tokugawa Reformation of Tendai Buddhism and Its Implications,” in The Culture of Secrecy in Japanese Religion, ed. Bernhard Scheid and Mark Teeuwen (London: Routledge, 2006), 309. 93.  Especially in a climate of increasing government control of religion, lineage claims also allowed leaders to present a respectable face to the authorities. Getsugan’s careful delineation of the provenance of his teachings during his 1683 interrogation may be seen in this light. See Getsugan, Getsugan no maki, 117–118. 94.  Getsugyō-butsu-kū refers to Jikigyō Miroku’s teacher, Getsugyō Sōjū (Mori Tarōkichi, 1643–1717). Hokugyō refers to Jikigyō’s chief disciple, Tanabe Jurōemon. Sengyō is Jurōemon’s son, Nakaganmaru Toyomune (1721–1783). 95.  The Murakami Kōsei lineage is discussed briefly in chapter 4. 96.  Formally titled “Permission Scroll” or Yurushi no maki, this work is dated 1688.5.23. An earlier scroll by Getsugan, Sansoku karasu no maki (Book of the Three-Legged Crow), dated 1675.9.17, is also a fusegi collection; it reportedly contains sixty formulae, including fusegi to protect against bleeding, insects, and fox possession. Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 300–301. 97.  As was customary in the Murakami Kōsei wing of the movement, along with the central image of the mountain these works included the typical Kakugyō-style pictorial elements (especially the three-legged crow) in addition to the special ritual words (gomonku) and recital texts (tonaebumi). 98.  Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 300. By some accounts “standing and waiting” (tachimachi) originally referred to Kakugyō’s practice of standing on one leg for lengthy periods. 99.  Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 302. 100.  Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 296. 101.  An 1840 example forbids display of its contents, even to fellow practitioners; Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 302. Here again we note a parallel with late Daoist talismanic materials, transmission of which certified the authority of their creators or users. Raz, Emergence of Taoism, 133 (esp. note 15), 134; Isabelle Robinet, “Revelations and Sacred Texts,” in Encyclopedia of Taoism 1:25–26; Despeux, “Talismans,” 528. 102.  Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 302. 103.  Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 298. Iwashina recounts that a Fuji sendatsu once refused to show him the transmission text that he carried on his person unless Iwashina were first to receive permission from the oshi, in which case the sendatsu would display the scroll to him properly, on an altar; Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 302. 104.  I refer here to the aforementioned Hi no gohiden, from which Iwashina reproduces several talisman models; Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 306–317. He cautions that the examples in this late Tokugawa collection were not common to all the Fuji groups of the time. 105.  The remarks are included, respectively, in the “Kazebarai fusegi” that immediately precedes the aforementioned “Kazebarai no fusegi,” and immediately following the “Kazeokuri yakubyō saimon” and the “Sanjitsu kōkū taisoku” image-text in Seigyō, Seigyō-kū yuishin dokuga densho. (A modern print version also appears in Fujidō kihon bunken shū, 24b.) The last-mentioned affliction, kakuran, may also refer to sunstroke. 106.  Cited from Hi no gohiden, in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 311–312. Here I render both fū and fuda as “amulet.” 107.  For reproductions of Fujikō talismans dating to the Bakumatsu period, see Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 306–310. By this time the slips seem to have assimilated the Shugendō

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talismanic aesthetic. The later Fuji talismans are often vertically arranged, with the writing elongated in the lower half of the paper slip, in some cases resembling the late Tokugawa Shugendō talismans mentioned above. 108.  Hirasawa and Lomi point in a similar vein to the multidimensionality of “modest materialities” in Japanese religious life. Hirasawa and Lomi, “Modest Materialities,” 218. 109.  Richard Rubinger, Popular Literacy in Early Modern Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2007), 34. A related marker of the diffusion of knowledge among the emerging “middle-class literati” of the late seventeenth century is the spread of divination manuals and compendia of everyday knowledge (such as ōzassho and setsuyōshū). For the former genre, see Matthias Hayek, “From Esoteric Tools to Handbooks ‘for Beginners’: Printed Divination Books from the Seventeenth Century to the Beginning of the Eighteenth Century,” in Listen, Copy, Read: Popular Learning in Early Modern Japan, ed. Matthias Hayek and Annick Horiuchi (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 288–318; and for the latter, Yokoyama Toshio, “Nichiyō hyakkakei setsuyōshū no shiyō taiyō no keiryōka bunsekihō ni tsuite,” Jinbun gakuhō 66 (Mar. 1990): 177–202. 110.  Getsugan, Getsugan no maki, 125. 111.  W. J. T. Mitchell, “Word and Image,” in Critical Terms for Art History, ed. Robert S.Nelson and Richard Shiff (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 55.

Chapter 3: God, Life Processes, and the New Age 1.  Jikigyō Miroku is often shortened to “Miroku” in modern accounts. In this book I use “Jikigyō” for the sake of consistency with the shortened religious names of other members of his lineage (e.g., Getsugyō, Ichigyō, Hokugyō), and also to prevent confusion with the Japanese rendition of Maitreya Buddha’s name, Miroku, which is written in different Chinese characters. Jikigyō was born into the Kobayashi family of Lower Kawakami, in the Isshi district. From the age of eight he lived with a branch of the same family in nearby Yamato (Nara Prefecture), returning to Ise when he reached eleven. His biography has been treated in some detail by various scholars (see note 2 of the introduction). Except where indicated, my principal sources for biographical information about Jikigyō are his Oketsujō, 515–516, and Osoegaki, 526–527 (both in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi). I have also taken into account the biographical accounts in Tanabe Jūrōemon’s prologue to the latter’s compilation of Jikigyō’s last sermons, Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, in NST 67:424–426, and in two alternative editions of the sermons, Sanjūichinichi no otsutae, in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 535–536, and Fuji gyōja Jikigyō roku, in Shinkō sōsho, ed. Mitamura Engyo (Tokyo: Kokusho Kankōkai, 1915), 458a–b; as well as Tanabe Izumi’s zenbun (preface) to Jikigyō’s Ichiji fusetsu no maki, in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 498–500. A number of other traditions about Jikigyō’s life have circulated, such as the oft-cited narrative by Jikigyō’s disciple, Koizumi Bunrokurō, Koizumi Bunrokurō oboegaki (1728–1733), in Yoshida-ke monjo, Shibuya-ku shiryō shū (Tokyo: Shibuya Kuyakusho, 1981) 2:72–223, which I have consulted selectively (esp. 134–138). For a photographic reproduction and modern Japanese translation of a later hagiography by another follower, Nakaganmaru Toyomune, see Ōtani Masayuki, Fujikō chūkō no so, Jikigyō Miroku den: Nakaganmaru Toyomune “Fujisan Eboshi-iwa Miroku no yuraiki” o yomu (Tokyo: Iwata Shoin, 2013). 2.  Ōtani Masayuki maintains that Jikigyō never attained success as a merchant or gave away his possessions; Ōtani, Kakugyō-kei, 47, 50.

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3.  There is little doubt that Jikigyō authored these three works. However, the contents of Ichiji fusetsu no maki are previewed in an earlier work that has been attributed to Jikigyō, but which may have been coauthored or authored by his teacher Getsugyō. The earlier text is untitled, but is variously called Yuiitsu no maki or [Getsugyō] ojikisō no maki. Iwashina reproduces it in Fujikō no rekishi, 508–512; and discusses its relationship to Ichiji fusetsu no maki on 489–491. Miyazaki Fumiko offers a comparison of the contents of the two texts in her “Minshū shūkyō no kosumorojī to ōkenkan,” in Iwanami kōza tennō to ōken o kangaeru 4: Shūkyō to ōken, ed. Amino Yoshihiko (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2002), esp. 198. Ōtani Masayuki articulates his own view of the issue in his Kakugyō-kei, 42, 52–55. Jikigyō’s Osoegaki no maki, reproduced in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 523–535, may have been intended as a sequel to Ichiji fusetsu no maki. Oketsujō no maki, more formally titled Jikigyō Miroku kū issai ketsujō yomiuta, appears in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 512–523. The verses in this collection were regularly recited by later Fujikō members in group meetings. Iwashina says that two thirds of the original holograph of the text are lost, so he supplemented it by drawing on a copy held by the Kobayashi family of Ise Kawakami, Jikigyō’s natal home. See Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 491– 493, for the author’s discussion of the text. 4.  There is also considerable disagreement about the relative authenticity of the Nihon shisō taikei edition of Sanjūichinichi no on-maki and another version of the text, Sanjūichinichi no otsutae (originally titled Sanjūichinichi no maki), reproduced in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 535–551, and the aforementioned variant edition of the latter, Fuji gyōja Jikigyō roku (see note 1 above). The Otsutae and the Jikigyō roku versions (both unannotated) are quite similar in content and style; they are believed to have circulated widely among late Tokugawa Fujikō and Fujidō members, in contrast to the version of the Thirty-One Days that appears in NST 67, which Iwashina says is completely different in writing style; Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 495– 496. There are indeed very significant discrepancies in the prose of the NST edition, on the one hand, and the other two received versions, on the other, with regard to style and level of formality, indicating at the very least different target audiences. There are also additions and elisions in the NST edition vis-à-vis the other two texts. The gist of the content, however, is fairly consistent. For the purposes of this study, which concentrates on the early development of the Fuji religious tradition, I cite from the critically annotated and readily accessible NST edition, with occasional reference as appropriate to the Otsutae version in Iwashina. 5.  In Edo-period Fuji devotional discourse, both “Dainichi” and “Daibosatsu” (Great Bodhisattva) function as generic honorific suffixes to Sengen’s name. The title “Sengen Dainichi” alludes in addition, if not primarily, to the mountain deity’s identity as the “great sun,” the source of life and procreation (discussed below), rather than purely to Dainichi Buddha. 6.  Note that the last title is (probably erroneously) assigned the reading Chōjitsu Gekkō Butsu in Kakugyō’s ominuki reproduced in Gotaigyō, NST 67:458. The Buddhist reading is Jōnichi Gakkō Butsu. In Japan, Gakkō or Moonlight (Skt. Candraprabha) is usually paired with Nikkō or Sunlight (Skt. Sūryaprabha) as bodhisattvas attendant upon Yakushi Nyorai, the so-called Healing Buddha. The ideographs that compose the title Chōjitsu Gakkō, like Tsukihi, reiterate Mount Fuji’s dual nature. My rendition of this deity’s title is adapted from Tyler’s “Buddha of the Eternal Light of Sun and Moon” in his “Great Practice,” 303. 7.  Kaguya-hime, protagonist of the narrative tale Taketori monogatari (dated to the tenth century), had earlier been associated with Mount Fuji, but she did not play a significant role in Fuji devotional culture in the Edo period. For an extended discussion, see Takeya Yukie,

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Fujisan no saijinron (Tokyo: Iwata Shoin, 2006), 147–217. As for the monkeys associated with Kōshin (who is often identified with the Buddhist deity Shōmen Kongō), their inclusion in Fuji talismanic art, as well as in paintings and other visual genres (whether the proverbial nosee, no-hear, no-speak figures, or the multiple abstracted monkey-shaped marks that recall Kumano crow patterns), is considered evidence of the progressive popularization of kōshin beliefs in general in Tokugawa Japan. Miyake, “Fuji mandara,” 433. During the late Edo period, Fujikō groups (and/or the oshi who catered to them) assimilated kōshin ideas and rituals into the pilgrimage culture that developed in association with the sexagenary observance of Mount Fuji’s kōshin or ennen years (chapter 1, note 123). The displacement of Amida or Dainichi on Fuji talismans by images of the female kami, Konohana Sakuya-hime, is also considered a sure sign of late Tokugawa and early Meiji origins (see, e.g., Fujisan no efuda, 11, figure 25, and the commentary on 22). For another angle on the shifting identity of Mount Fuji deities, see Marco Gottardo, “On the Identity of Mount Fuji’s Deity: A Study on the Role of Benzai-ten in the Development of the Fuji Cult,” Tamagawa daigaku bungaku bu kiyō 57 (2016): 47–60. 8.  For clear examples in modern print, see the diagrammatic reproductions of Kakugyō’s ominuki in Gotaigyō, NST 67:457, 458; also see Tyler’s comments in his “Great Practice,” 266. Some Fuji talismanic pieces add a sideways crescent moon just below the central name-string; see, for example, Seigyō, “Kazebarai no fusegi,” Seigyō kū yuishin dokuga densho. 9.  The moon-and-sun motif had roots in medieval Buddhist conceptions of the “twofold Dainichi” (Fabio Rambelli, “Before the First Buddha; Medieval Japanese Cosmogony and the Quest for the Primeval Kami,” Monumenta Nipponica 64, no. 2 [2009]: 256); as well as in medieval interpretations of Amaterasu, some of which preview the proto-Fujikō construals of Mount Fuji as a creator-savior god who operates according to a soteriological timeline. See, for example, Mark Teeuwen, “The Creation of a Honji Suijaku Deity,” in Teeuwen and Rambelli, Buddhas and Kami in Japan, 115–144. 10.  Jūni bosatsu shusshō no mōshi-tsutaegaki, an eighteenth-century copy of a text attributed to Getsugyō, contained in FYSS 5, Kinsei 3:67–68. A depiction in one of Getsugyō’s lineal transmission scrolls (yurushi) gives central place to the star, Myōjōten (Venus), rather than the mountain symbol, but as in the ominuki, the axis is flanked by the sun and moon. The idea that Mount Fuji created the universe and all living things was first developed in Getsugyō’s circle of followers, according to Ōtani; see Ōtani, Kakugyō-kei, 37–38. However, the idea is visually implied in the ritual image-texts produced by the founding figure Kakugyō. 11.  In terms of comparable creation-myth logic, I have in mind, for example, the generation of Vedic gods from, and their ultimate identification with, the sacrificial rituals that originated as offerings to those very gods. 12.  That is, kenkon (Ch. qiankun). Jikigyō, Ichiji, 500b. Kakugyō also verbally identifies the mountain with yin and yang in his Hibi no kokoro-e, in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 64. The cave, also known as Funatsu Tainai, is located on the northern trail, above Upper Yoshida. 13.  One kanme is 3.75 kilograms. The mountain as a whole—a synthesis of both parents’ bodies—is said to be an extraordinary 80,004 jō in height (about 240 kilometers). Jikigyō, Ichiji, 500b. 14.  The other two chambers are identified as “Tokutaishi [Prince Shōtoku]—Seishi Bosatsu [Mahāsthāmaprāpta Bodhisattva]” (north) and “Dai” (south). Jikigyō, Ichiji, 500b. 15.  Regarding the emergence of the world from the “four seas,” see also Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 442. In the Unspoken Word, the “pillar of Mt. Sumeru” (Shimi no hashira [sic]) is said

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to rise to the skies from inside the mountain’s southwestern cave, Hitoana. Jikigyō, Ichiji, 501a. 16.  Kojiki, NST 1:21, trans. Donald Philippi, book 1, 3:49. In another refraction of the Japanese creation myth, Sengen is said to perform ritual purification by washing his hands and mouth, in this case not at the border of the netherworld, but on the shores of (or in) the so-called Eight Inner Lakes and Eight Outer Lakes of Mount Fuji; Jikigyō, Ichiji, 507a. For later descriptions of pilgrimage itineraries to these bodies of water, see Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 442–454; and see also Tyler, “Great Practice,” 277–281. 17.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 501a–b. 18.  The seeds produced five men and five women along with three additional seeds in each case. The firstborn child of each of these ten primal human beings (presumably five couples) became the progenitors of the Minamoto clan, which is said to have encompassed an extraordinarily large number of human beings: 1,200,000,000 men and 1,300,000,000 women. Jikigyō, Ichiji, 501b. (The text later speaks of thirty-two pairs of male forms and forty-two pairs of female forms among those who were “one” with Heaven; Jikigyō, Ichiji, 506a.) After another 160 years, the clan’s branch lineages multiplied further into three additional groups (each constituted by 400,000,000 males and 500,000,000 females), which were made up of commoners, Fujiwara clan members, and Tachibana clan members. The cited numbers fall 100,000,000 short of the stated total of 5,300,000,000, however. For a purportedly earlier version of this narrative attributed to Jikigyō, see Yuiitsu no maki (Ojikisō no maki), in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 508–512. 19.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 501b. 20.  See Lucia Dolce’s “The Worship of Celestial Bodies in Japan: Politics, Rituals and Icons,” Culture and Cosmos: A Journal of the History of Astrology and Cultural Astronomy 10, no. 1–2 (2006): 3–43, for a useful overview of star thought in Japanese religious history. Today the production of protective talismans by Shugendō practitioners still occurs in conjunction with rituals centered on stars and star-deities; Gaynor Sekimori, “Star Rituals and Nikkō,” in the same issue, 223. 21.  Hirano characterizes this particular work as an ominuki even though it lacks any image of Mount Fuji and other typical features of the genre; Hirano, Fuji shinkō, 56. See also Kakugyō’s ominuki in Gotaigyō, NST 67:468; trans. Tyler, “Great Practice,” 302. Early examples of the aforementioned permission scrolls (yurushi no maki) display symbols of the moon, sun, and stars much in the same manner. This kind of cosmological mapping was common in the early Fuji community; for example, Jūni bosatsu shusshō no mōshi-tsutaegaki, attributed to Getsugyō, correlates the twelve directions and their associated animal symbols with twelve kinds of grains and legumes; FYSS 5, Kinsei 3:67. Correlative cosmological lore circulated widely in Japan during the early Edo period through popular compendia; see, for example, Kan’ei kunenban ōzassho, ed. Hashimoto Manpei and Koike Jun’ichi (Tokyo: Iwata Shoin, 1996). 22.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 501b. Nine billion clouds, eighty astral bodies, eighty bolts of thunder, and 1,100,000,050 demons are also included in Mount Fuji’s huge inventory of cosmic beings; Jikigyō, Ichiji, 502b, 503a. One billion beings are allocated to Mount Asama in Shinano, one hundred million to the Hakone range, and fifty to the temple Saishōji, among other sites. 23.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 507b. Each Japanese peak is also furnished with the eight guardian deities of Buddhism.

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24.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 507a. The pass is between Hachiōji and Sagamiko, in today’s Kanagawa Prefecture. Kobotoke is further identified in the text with Takamagahara (Field of High Heaven), the legendary dwelling place of the Japanese gods. 25.  Ellen Schattschneider, Immortal Wishes: Labor and Transcendence on a Japanese Sacred Mountain (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003), 150. 26.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 508a. 27.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 505b. 28.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 502a. 29.  Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 523b. I have removed the multiple honorifics that precede (namu) and follow (sama) each of the named deities. “Ruler” translates ōsama, presumably a reference to the emperor or the government in general. 30.  The use of the term “bodhisattva” (bosatsu) to refer to rice and other grains was not uncommon in popular discourse in the Edo period. A well-known example is the identification of rice and deity by the thinker Andō Shōeki (1703–1762). Wakao Masaki, “Shomotsu to minzoku no hazama de,” in Nihon shisō shi kōza 5: Hōhō, ed. Karube Tadashi, et al. (Tokyo: Perikansha, 2015), 159–160. 31.  The text locates “Kashima” in Suruga, which corresponds to today’s central Shizuoka Prefecture. 32.  Jikigyō allowed that “red rice” (tōboshi; akagome) grew in other countries, but insisted that it was not the “true bodhisattva.” Jikigyō, Ichiji, 502a. For remarks on the historical association between rice cultivation in Japan and Japanese deities, see Emiko Ohnuki-Tierney, “Structure, Event and Historical Metaphor: Rice and Identities in Japanese History,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 1, no. 2 (June 1995): 228. The Fuji religious discourse of rice as bodhisattva arguably implies a notion of agency like that of the celestial bodies and landscape features mentioned above. For a recent interpretation of the agency of rice in an esoteric Buddhist context, see Steven Trenson, “Rice, Relics, and Jewels: The Network and Agency of Rice Grains in Medieval Japanese Esoteric Buddhism,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 45, no. 2 (2018): 269–307. 33.  Jikigyō says the reason why Fuji is worshipped from the northern side (which dominated pilgrim activities by this time) is that “water collects” on that flank; Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 427. (The mountain’s lakes are mostly located in the north.) It is worth noting here that the founder, Kakugyō, is believed to have worshipped dragon gods who were directionally correlated with the specific bodies of water in which he practiced mizugori. Itō Kenkichi, “Kakugyō Tōbutsu kūki to Kakugyō kankei monjo ni tsuite,” NST 67:647. 34.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 502b. 35.  The mechanism for this production is not entirely clear, but according to the text, each human being represents an agglomeration of one thousand square ri of land; the process of planting, harvesting, and consuming rice from the land may be the thrust of the connection. Jikigyō, Ichiji, 501b. 36.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 445. See also Sanjūichinichi no otsutae, in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 547b. 37.  Caroline Hirasawa believes the motif is nearly universal; Hirasawa, Hell-Bent for Heaven, 3. A well-known Chinese Buddhist example is the poem by Su Shi (Dongpo; 1036– 1101) that was famously glossed in Japan by Dōgen (1200–1253). See Dōgen Kigen, Keisei sanshoku, in Dōgen Shōbōgenzō, ed. Mizuno Yaoko (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1990), 2:108 (Taishō shinshū daizōkyō, ed. Takakusu Junjirō and Watanabe Kaigyoku, 85 vols. [Tokyo: Taishō

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Issaikyō Kankōkai, 1924–1933], [hereafter cited as T], 2582, 82:38c). For Daoist interpretations of mountains in terms of bodily organs, see Gil Raz, “Daoist Sacred Geography,” in Early Chinese Religion, Part Two: The Period of Division (220–589 A.D.), ed. John Lagerwey and Lü Pengzhi (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 2:1404. 38.  See Ōtani, Kakugyō-kei, 77–78. 39.  The text is called Shōge mibungo and is reproduced and discussed in Ōtani Masayuki, “Shōge mibungo honkoku: Fujikō kenkyū ni kanren shite,” Bukkyō Bunka Gakkai kiyō 12 (Nov. 2003): 80–117. For current scholarship in English on Buddhist embryological discourse in Japan, see (especially in relation to its Tantric sources) Lucia Dolce, “The Embryonic Generation of the Perfect Body: Ritual Embryology from Japanese Tantric Sources,” in Transforming the Void: Embryological Discourse and Reproductive Imagery in East Asian Religions, ed. Anna Andreeva and Dominic Steavu (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 253–310; and more generally, William Lindsey, Fertility and Pleasure: Ritual and Sexual Values in Tokugawa Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2007), 106–118. 40.  Mi み here also has the sense of mi 実, fruit. 41.  Jikigyō, Yuiitsu no maki (Ojikisō no maki), 509a–b 42.  For the quoted words, see Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 435. 43.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 428. 44.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 446. 45.  In this view, the moon (also identified with Mount Fuji) is the source of the waters of the universe, from which all things are generated. According to Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 427, “All things spring from the waters. The Mountain is the body of the moon. The moon is the source of the waters.” The term “moon-waters” or “monthly waters” (menstrual fluids), 月 水, is given the reading tsukimizu in Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 428; no reading is assigned in the variant Sanjūichinichi no otsutae, 538a. A more common pronunciation is gessui. 46.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 428. 47.  The text interprets the fact that the newborn infant “cries out for its parents” and “naturally suckles” at its mother’s breast immediately after birth as evidence of its originary oneness with Sengen; the newborn acquired the knowledge to behave in this way before birth. Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 435. 48.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 443. 49.  For a typical articulation of this view, see Ichiro Hori, Folk Religion in Japan (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1968), 166–174. See also Carmen Blacker’s classic study, The Catalpa Bow (London: Allan & Unwin, 1975), e.g., 212, 217–219. 50.  Helen Hardacre describes the rationale for the male-centered practice in early modern Shugendō as “a union of opposites, in which the male ascetic absorbs the feminine powers of the mountain.” Hardacre, “Conflict,” 160. More specifically, the ascetic process was identified with the maturation of a fetus in the Womb Realm (Taizōkai) Mandala. Mountain ascetic training continues to draw on embryological metaphors of this kind in some sites in Japan today. For an absorbing study of embryological and sexual symbolism in contemporary Haguro mountain asceticism, see Gaynor Sekimori, “Foetal Buddhahood: From Theory to Practice—Embryological Symbolism in the Autumn Peak Ritual of Haguro Shugendo,” in Transforming the Void: Embryological Discourse and Reproductive Imagery in East Asian Religions, ed. Anna Andreeva and Dominic Steavu (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 522–557. 51.  For a study of the shifting gender identities of Mount Fuji and its deities, see Takeya, Fujisan no saijinron; a succinct reflection is contained on 319–321.

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52.  The cave is associated in the text with mizu no iru marubi or mizu marubi (roughly, “water conduit”), which according to Itō and Yasumaru’s headnote, is an alternate name for Ken-marubi, the lava flow zone in the northern foothills of Mount Fuji, where Funatsu is located. Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 448n. Jikigyō’s follower and scribe, Koizumi Bunrokurō, also compares Gotainai with a woman’s vagina and uterus. He explains that it is difficult for a person to navigate at first because it is so narrow, but that “if one does penetrate its depths by crawling forward, one eventually comes out into a large space.” In the same way, he goes on, in human beings it is “the lower front of a woman that receives the seed [but] the inside of a woman’s belly is spacious,” like the innermost chamber of the cave. Koizumi, Koizumi Bunrokurō oboegaki, 105b. 53.  A cave shaped like a vagina (called “Okama Rock”) is said to be located in the stone bed of Okamasawa. Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 448–449. 54.  Note that uterine conceptualizations of mountain topography play an important part in some women’s mountain practice in Japan today. See Schattschneider, Immortal Wishes, 160–162, for this interpretation in relation to cave austerities at Mount Akakura. 55.  Kami means both god and head; kami no ke may be translated as either “the hair on one’s head” or “the hair of a god.” 56.  The correlation order in the text is perhaps inadvertently reversed. White is usually associated with yin and the moon; red with yang and the sun. Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 436–437. 57.  Good clothes are said to be “eighty-eight,” that is, rice—which is identified with Mount Fuji. The component parts of the rice character, kome 米, are 八十八 (eighty-eight). Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 437. 58.  See Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 436, for these two statements. 59.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 448. Given the prohibition of women at this level of Mount Fuji the water would necessarily be collected by men. This practice was popularized in the Tokugawa period, in tandem with the growing association between devotion to the mountain deity and the quest for safe childbirth (anzan) and postnatal care. Male pilgrims’ collection of the cave drippings is famously depicted in an 1857 triptych, Fujisan tainai meguri no zu, by Utagawa Sadahide (Hashimoto Gyokuransai; 1807–1879). 60.  For two classic statements, see Dōgen Kigen, Raihai tokuzui, in Dōgen Shōbōgenzō 2:159–183 (T 2582, 82:33c–38b); and Nichiren, “The Daimoku of the Lotus Sutra” (Hokkekyō daimoku shō), in The Major Writings of Nichiren Daishōnin, vol. 3, trans. Gosho Translation Committee (Tokyo: Nichiren Shoshū Kokusai Sentā, 1979), esp. 9–27. 61.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 428–429. 62.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 428. The so-called pregnancy belt or hara obi (here called san no hibo) was a strip of cotton cloth customarily wrapped around the lower abdomen from about the fifth month. 63.  Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 527b. The translation is tentative. 64.  The Five Hindrances are women’s incapacity to attain any of five Buddhist statuses (Brahmā, Śakra, demon king, cakravartin, and buddha). Girls and women owed the Three Obediences successively, in accordance with their stage in life, to their fathers, husbands, and sons. These and other values were disseminated in the Tokugawa period through a wide range of didactic vernacular literature aimed at girls and women; Onna daigaku (Greater Learning for Women) is only the best-known example. See, e.g., Lindsey’s interpretive study of the 1692 compendium for women Onna chōhōki in his Fertility and Pleasure. Other means of

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circulation of these ideas included house codes (kakun), copybooks, encyclopedic manuals (setsuyōshū), Buddhist sermons, tales of piety, public notice boards (kōsatsu), street performances, and theater, to name a few. 65.  Koizumi Bunrokurō describes Jikigyō’s affirmative view of women’s moral capacity in similar terms; Koizumi Bunrokurō oboegaki, 118b–119a. 66.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 436. 67.  Nyonin kinsei refers to the restriction against female visitors that was in place at several revered mountain sites in premodern Japan; at Mount Fuji it was implemented on the northern slope by the Yoshida oshi since 1564, at the latest. Miyazaki, “Female Pilgrims,” 346. However, as Miyazaki shows, the exclusion of female pilgrims from the upper reaches of the mountain was circumvented with increasing frequency beginning in the late eighteenth century, sometimes with the collaboration of the Yoshida oshi, who had economic interests at stake; Miyazaki, “Female Pilgrims,” esp. 353–355, 360. The Fujikō/Fujidō members who engaged in or promoted these unauthorized female climbs may well have drawn inspiration from records of Jikigyō’s earlier remarks. Jikigyō is also said to have erected a wooden plaque, dated Kyōhō 16 [1731].6.13, that announced the dissolution of the ban against women climbers on Mount Fuji; Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 165–166. Ōtani disagrees with this interpretation of the plaque, based on a rather unconvincing analysis of its text; Ōtani, Kakugyō-kei, 56. 68.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 436. 69.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 443. The remark about the character “i” on the silkworm refers to the idea that the silkworm is marked by flecks shaped like the kana syllable “i” (い). (The focus on“i” may also be a play on the homophone 居, the stem of the word iru, which means to stay or be in a particular place.) The syllable “i” carried special significance in the Fuji system of meanings, including in relation to Jikigyō’s name, Itō Ihei; Hirano, Fuji shinkō, 71–72. See also Koizumi Bunrokurō’s discussion of the name Itō Ihei; Koizumi Bunrokurō oboegaki, 186–187. 70.  The Tenrikyō founder, Nakayama Miki, also rejected the view of female impurity (and like Jikigyō she referred to menstrual blood as “flowers”). Asano Miwako, “Minshū shūkyō ni okeru josei,” in Onna to otoko no jikū, Nihon joseishi saikō 4: Ranjuku suru onna to otoko: Kinsei (Tokyo: Fujiwara Shoten, 1995), 98. The related notion of a dual-gendered or androgynous god can be found not only in the teachings of Tenrikyō but also in those of Nyoraikyō and Ōmotokyō, among other Japanese religious groups, as well as in the writings of Tokugawa thinkers such as Andō Shōeki (1703–1762) and Masuho Nokoguchi (Zankō; 1655– 1742). For an overview, see Asano Miwako, “Minshū shūkyō ni okeru ryōsei guyūkan,” in Sukui to oshie, ed. Ōsumi Kazuo and Nishiguchi Junko (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1989), 200–229. 71.  An examination of the social and ethical thought of members of the multifarious Fuji groups that developed in the century after the death of Jikigyō Miroku is beyond the scope of this study, but it bears mention that in the early nineteenth century some Fujikō leaders actively promoted social mores in line with the Tokugawa ideology, while others (especially members of Fujidō), taking cues from writings attributed to Jikigyō Miroku, emphasized the religious and social importance of women even more pointedly than had Jikigyō and his immediate followers. See Sawada, “Sexual Relations,” esp. 356–366. 72.  See, e.g., Jikigyō’s comments along these lines in his Osoegaki, 528a, 528b; and in his Osakijō (letter to Tanabe Jurōemon), 181. 73.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 439.

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74.  That is, parts of Ichiji fusetsu no maki may draw on the teachings of Jikigyō’s teacher, Getsugyō Sōjū; see note 3 above. There is brief but less precise discourse regarding the new age in Jikigyō’s Osoegaki no maki. The dictated Sanjūichinichi no on-maki does not speak to the issue of the Age of Miroku or the schedule of its fulfillment. Ōtani regards this omission as one more sign that this canonical Fujikō work does not represent Jikigyō’s actual teachings; Ōtani, Kakugyō-kei, 77. However, even if the theory of world salvation is not prominent in the received account of Jikigyō’s last sermons (perhaps because its editors considered it inappropriate for a general membership, or likely to arouse unwanted attention from the authorities), it does not follow that Jikigyō was not the source of the basic teachings represented in this text. 75.  For the following description of the Fuji providence of world salvation, I have also consulted Miyazaki Fumiko, “Fujidō no rekishikan: Jikigyō Miroku to Sangyō Rokuō no kyōten o chūshin ni,” Gendai shūkyō 2 (1980): 121–140, repr. in Hirano Eiji, Fuji Sengen shinkō, 257–265. 76.  A remark to the effect that the Age of the Gods lasted eighteen thousand years appears in Iwashina’s reproduction of Ichiji, in his Fujikō no rekishi, 505b, 507b, but it is likely an interpolation. It does not appear in the version of Ichiji fusetsu no maki in Fujidō kihon bunken shū, Hatogaya-shi no komonjo 4, ed. Okada and Hatogaya-shi, 37b; 38b. 77.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 505a. (Regarding the meaning of the term “miroku” see also note 105 below.) 78.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 505b. 79.  The reading kage かげ may be assigned to 影 or 陰. H. Byron Earhart opts for “shadow request” to render kage negai in Fujikō writings; see Earhart, Mount Fuji, 52. In earlier publications I have used “indirect request.” 80.  The “Three Countries” are India, China, and Japan—a phrase that at the time effectively indicated the entire world. 81.  Jikigyō reports that Śākyamuni also tonsured his two senior disciples, Ānanda and Kāśyapa, “in order to soften the spirit of human beings and all creatures.” Jikigyō, Ichiji, 506a. Nanba corresponds to today’s Osaka. 82.  In the Buddhist context the phrase “ichiji fusetsu” refers to the view, associated with the Śūraṅgama Sūtra, that Śākyamuni did not teach even “one word” of the ultimate truth that he comprehended in his enlightenment because it was beyond expression in language, and that beings must therefore grasp the ultimate truth of the Dharma through their own personal experience. 83.  Miyazaki Fumiko, “Minshū shūkyō no kosumorojī,” 197. She cites Jikigyō, Yuiitsu no maki, 511. This text, which as noted has also been associated with Getsugyō under the title Ojikisō no maki, is dated Shōtoku 2 (1712). 84.  Jikigyō, Ichiji. 504a. The pivotal event is said to have occurred in the hour of the dragon (7 to 9 a.m.), on the fifteenth day—the day of the dragon—of the sixth month of Genroku 1, the year of the dragon (1688). Ōtani argues, based on an 1823 manuscript copy of Ichiji fusetsu o hiraki no maki, that on 1688.6.15 both Amaterasu’s transfer of the world to Sengen Daibosatsu and the special character san 参 were revealed to Getsugyō, not Jikigyō; Ōtani, Kakugyō-kei, 42–43. 85.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 504a. The text locates the promontory of Shaka no wari-ishi on the northern side of Mount Fuji’s crater. 86.  Miyazaki, “Minshū shūkyō no kosumorojī,” 198–199. On the latter point she cites Okada Hiroshi, “Jikigyō Miroku shinpitsu ‘O-ashida no wake’ no koto,” Maruhato dayori 148

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(Nov. 17, 2001): 3–5. See the coda to Osoegaki (in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 534a), which states that the imperial and shogunal authorities should peruse Jikigyō Miroku’s three writings (Ichiji fusetsu no maki, Osoegaki no maki, and Oketsujō no maki) three times a day. 87.  Miyazaki, “Minshū shūkyō no kosumorojī,” 198. 88.  On this point see also Ōtani, Kakugyō-kei, 50. 89.  For an interpretation of Fujikō as a form of millennialism broadly defined, see Helen Hardacre, “Japanese Millennial Movements,” in The Oxford Handbook of Millenialism, ed. Catherine Wessinger (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011; Oxford Handbooks Online, 2012), 10–11. 90.  Practitioners’ brief remarks about their climbs in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries are scattered across various writings. Getsugan Sōjū testifies in his Getsugan no maki, 118, that he and his teacher Ganshin went on pilgrimage to Mount Fuji every year. Jikigyō, who accompanied his own teacher Getsugyō during mountain excursions, mentions their 1700 trip to Funatsu Cave in Jikigyō, Ichiji, 507b. His narrative about a much later trip to Mount Fuji (on 1731.6.15), during which the ascetic carried out “a three-day fast for the realization of the Age of Miroku” along with three other men, is contained in Jikigyō, Oketsujō, 516b. 91.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 504a. The import of “gannin” is discussed in chapter 4. 92.  “Sun Child” or Hi no miko is a rock near the current ninth station. The Eight Petals (Hachiyō) are the petals of the lotus blossom upon which buddhas and bodhisattvas sit in their enlightened realms (such as Amida in his Pure Land). In the Fuji context the term refers to the eight subpeaks that are construed to encircle the crater, or simply the summit as a whole; here it seems to refer more generally to the upper reaches of the mountain. 93.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 425. The gist of this account also appears in Sanjūichinichi no otsutae, 535b. 94.  Jikigyō, Oketsujō, 515b; Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 527a. See also Tanabe Izumi, Zenbun, 498a, 500a. 95.  Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 527a. The same or very similar wording appears in Jikigyō’s description of his practices in Oketsujō, 515b, and in Tanabe Izumi’s rendition in the latter’s Zenbun, 498a. Iwashina’s print edition of Osoegaki no maki in his Fujikō no rekishi is based on a holograph titled Shintoku gohōten no maki, which at the time of Iwashina’s writing was in the possession of the Yoshida oshi, Togawa Kōchi. The Togawa text was missing some lines, which Iwashina reportedly filled in based on a copy of the original made by the Fujidō leader Kotani Sanshi. Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 494. 96.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 425. 97.  See, e.g., Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 525a. 98.  See Sanjūichinichi no on-maki , 445, for the above remarks. 99.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 444–445. The sources are inconsistent with regard to the specific kinds of fish that Jikigyō recommended avoiding. In the cited pages of Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, pilgrims are cautioned against eating shark, mudfish, blowfish, eel, konoshiro, and kohada. However, Tanabe Izumi’s preface to the earlier Unspoken Word attributes to Jikigyō the view that kohada and konoshiro are permissible; Zenbun, 500a. (Konoshiro is gizzard shad, a member of the herring family; kohada is a larger variety of the same species.) 100.  The five-line ominuki is consistently associated with Jikigyō in the Fuji movement, even though its design may well have been inspired by his teacher Getsugyō’s model. See Itō Kenkichi, “Fujikō no ‘Ominuki,’ ” Geppō 16 (Sept. 1971): 9 (insert in NST 67). Getsugyō is also

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credited with adding the character san to the deity’s title at the top of the central line in the ominuki, another innovation that is sometimes associated with Jikigyō. Figure 3.2 is excerpted from Jikigyō’s Oketsujō no maki (1732). For a scroll version of a five-line ominuki attributed to Jikigyō, see FYSS 5, Kinsei 3, third page of frontispieces, and 456n35. Another image of a fiveline ominuki attributed to Jikigyō appears in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 295. 101.  See, e.g., the six ominuki reproduced on the third page of the frontispieces of Iwashina’s Fujikō no rekishi. 102.  See the photographic reproduction of Miroku hitsu otaifuku ominuki, in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, fourth page of frontispieces; and the reproduction of Miroku no shinpitsu in Hirano, Fuji Sengen shinkō, third page of frontispieces. Here, too, Ōtani argues against the earlier scholarly consensus, suggesting that Jikigyō never produced any stand-alone ominuki (that is, ominuki on scrolls or sheets, in contrast to ominuki images that are contained in the ascetic’s written treatises); Ōtani, Kakugyō-kei, 45. 103.  Tyler, “Tokugawa Peace,” 115. 104.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 428. 105.  See, e.g., Jikigyō, Ichiji, 502a; 502b; 505b; and Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 524b, 530a, 532a. “Keep one’s heart and mind straight” is a rendition of kokorosai roku ni mochi and kokoro roku ni shite that is consistent with the likely thrust of Jikigyō’s name, Miroku 身禄 (“making one’s person upright”), as well as with his understanding of Miroku no miyo (the Age of Miroku). As Miyazaki Fumiko observes, for Jikigyō “miroku meant a mode of life in which one does his/ her best to be honest and righteous and to support others.” Miyazaki, “Female Pilgrims,” 348. The character roku 禄 also signifies the idea of material sustenance (stipend, endowment) or of a blessing or fortune. Royall Tyler accordingly suggests that “the name Miroku evokes a plenty to be enjoyed in average life by the average, but true and honest, man.” Tyler, “Tokugawa Peace,” 111. If roku ろく in the cited text is assigned the character 禄, kokoro roku ni shite might be interpreted along these lines as making one’s heart (or will) a source of livelihood, productivity, and prosperity. 106.  See especially Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 430; and for references to moral values in Jikigyō’s own writings, e.g., Jikigyō, Ichiji, 502b; Jikigyō, Oketsujō, 512b, 516b. 107.  Sanjuichinichi no on-maki, 442. See, e.g., Analects 1.1. I have not seen evidence that Jikigyō was aware of the Confucian text. 108.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 429. Jikigyō’s editors arguably modified the text in this and the previous citation in such a way as to reveal their own educational background. Koizumi Bunrokurō, who transcribed Tanabe Jūrōemon’s notes of Jikigyō’s last sermons, is thought to have been a low-ranked samurai; if so, he probably had some formal exposure to the Neo-Confucian curriculum. 109.  For an example of the role of Neo-Confucian ideas of personal cultivation in a new religion of the early nineteenth century, see Sawada, Practical Pursuits, 74–81. 110.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 503a. Aśuras, or “fighting spirits,” are beings dominated by uncontrollable agonistic impulses. 111.  Numa no yoshiwara oborozukiyo—a dreary mire of reeds, where it is constantly nighttime, under an overcast moon. Jikigyō, Ichiji, 503a. (I thank Miyazaki Fumiko for her assistance with this interpretation.) The hells are also correlated with foreign countries (especially China). See, e.g., Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 529a, 533a. 112.  Sanjuichinichi no on-maki, 439. The mountain deity’s “vow” here is presumably one of salvation, comparable to the merciful Amida’s promise to all sentient beings that they will

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be reborn in his Pure Land. Regarding the future rewards of placing one’s faith in Sengen, see also Miyazaki Fumiko, “Fuji e no inori: Edo Fujikō ni okeru kyūsaikan no tenkai,” in Fujisan to Nihonjin, ed. Seikyūsha Henshūbu (Tokyo: Seikyūsha, 2002), 127, 131. For references to karmic hells and the judgment that wrongdoers (including the emperor and the shogun) face in the lower karmic realms, see also, for example, Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 528b, 529a, and 534a–b. 113.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 430. 114.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 437. Like Buddhist popularizers of his time, Jikigyō seems to have conceived of the karmic realms as psycho-physical states into which beings become trapped, whether in this life or the next; Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 442. 115.  The Tale of the Fuji Cave (discussed in chapter 1) typifies this kind of Buddhistinspired didactic discourse. Images of hellish retributions were also featured in visual teaching materials, such as sankei mandara; see, for example, Moerman, Localizing Paradise, 221–231; and Hirasawa, Hell-Bent for Heaven, 79–135. 116.  In a pioneering comparison of Kakugyō, Jikigyō, and Suzuki Shōsan in his “Tokugawa Peace,” Royall Tyler emphasizes that these and other popular religious teachers of the early Tokugawa period shared a common concern with social stability and ethical living. For examples of Shōsan’s and Bankei’s teaching approach in this regard, see, e.g., Suzuki Shōsan, Banmin tokuyō, in Suzuki Shōsan dōjin zenshū (Tokyo: Sankibō Busshorin, 1962), 64, 68, 70, 71, trans. Royall Tyler, in Suzuki Shōsan, Selected Works of Suzuki Shōsan, trans. Royall Tyler, Cornell University East Asia Papers 13 (Ithaca, NY: China-Japan Program, Cornell University, 1977), 59, 66–67, 69, 71, respectively; and Bankei Yōtaku, Bankei zenji zenshū, ed. Akao Ryūji (Tokyo: Daizō Shuppan, 1976), 41, 107; trans. Norman Waddell, in Bankei Yōtaku, The Unborn: The Life and Teachings of Zen Master Bankei, 1622–1693 (San Francisco, CA: Northpoint Press, 1984), 82–83, 107, respectively. 117.  I draw here on Kasahara Kazuo, Kinsei ōjoden no sekai: Seiji kenryoku to shūkyō to minshū (Tokyo: Kyōiku Shuppan, 1988), 78–82, 88, 94. See also Tamamura Fumio, Nihon Bukkyōshi: Kinsei (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1987), 221–223. An example of this way of thinking, cited by Keller Kimbrough, is found in the otogizoshi, Tameyo no sōshi (The Tale of Tameyo), in which two young orphans are reborn in the Pure Land because of their exceptional filial piety. Kimbrough, “Tourists in Paradise,” 292.

Chapter 4: The Appeal for Economy in Ritual Life 1.  Sakata Yoshio, Chōnin: Sono shakaishiteki kōsatsu (Tokyo: Kōbundō, 1939), 17. 2.  The alternate attendance system (sankin kōtai) was an important factor in this growing demand for workers. The population of Edo increased virtually tenfold over the course of the seventeenth century. Gilbert Rozman, ‘‘Edo’s Importance in the Changing Tokugawa Society,’’ Journal of Japanese Studies 1 (1974): 97–98. 3.  Mogi Yōichi, “Ise shōnin to hikyaku,” Kenkyū nōto, Mie Tanki Daigaku chiken nenpō 9 (Mar. 2004): 23–25. 4.  Gotō Takayuki, Ise shōnin no sekai (Tsu-shi: Mie-ken Ryōsho Shuppankai, 1990), 201. Members of the major Ise companies were also interrelated by marriage. Gotō, Ise shōnin, 131. 5.  Izawa’s economy had been gathering steam since the late sixteenth century because of its access to local products and its convenient location along the Ise pilgrimage route.

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Yoshinaga Akira, “Ise shōnin no kenkyū: Kinsei zenki ni okeru ‘Tomiyama ke’ no hatten to kōzō,” Shigaku zasshi 71, no. 3 (1962): 53 [284]. The Tomiyama set up shop in Edo as early as 1592. At its peak the company traded mostly in textiles from Osaka, tea and cotton from Ise, and agricultural products from Tōhoku. Gotō, Ise shōnin, 128; and see the timeline, 260. 6.  That is, Kyoto, Osaka, and Kōzuke. Gotō, Nishigaki and Matsushima, and Yoshinaga Akira differ on the chronology of the establishment of these various outlets. Here I follow Yoshinaga. See Yoshinaga, “Ise shōnin,” 52 [283]; cf. Nishigaki Seiji and Matsushima Hiroshi, Mie-ken no rekishi (Tokyo: Yamakawa Shuppansha, 1974), 138; and Gotō, Ise shōnin, 126. The Tomiyama’s family’s net worth peaked between the 1670s and 1715. On its expansion, see further Yoshinaga, “Ise shōnin,” 63 [294]; and Gotō, Ise shōnin, 128. 7.  According to Tanabe Jurōemon’s preface to Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, Jikigyō’s apprenticeship household was “the Tomiyama shop in Honchō of Edo,” identified in a headnote by Itō and Yasumaru, as a “fabric and variety store” in “Kanda Honchō 3-chōme.” NST 67:424. It is probably not a coincidence that Jikigyō’s teacher, Getsugyō Sōjū, also came from Matsuzaka. 8.  His later follower, Koizumi Bunrokurō, relates that after Jikigyō apprenticed with Tomiyama Seibei he went on to operate clothing stores under the names of Tomiyama Heiemon and Tomiyama Shinzaemon. Koizumi, Koizumi Bunrokurō oboegaki, 187. 9.  See Yoshinaga, “Ise shōnin,” 68 [299]. In his 1688 collection of stories about celebrated merchants of the early Edo period, Nippon eitaigura, Ihara Saikaku depicts a young Ise apprentice who was employed in Edo at approximately the same age as Jikigyō and who became an exemplary businessman in his own right. Trans. G. W. Sargent under the title Japanese Family Storehouse, or the Millionaire’s Gospel Modernised: Nippon eitai-gura or Daifuku shin chōja kyō (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1969), 132–136. Another example is Kawamura Tanken, who also went to Edo to work when he was thirteen. He initially struggled to establish himself, but ultimately made a fortune in timber sales in the aftermath of the Meireki 3 (1656) fire. Nishigaki and Matsushima, Mie-ken no rekishi, 137–138. 10.  Donald H. Shively, “Sumptuary Regulation and Status in Early Tokugawa Japan,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 25 (1964–1965): 129–130; see also 135, 143. 11.  I have in mind the financial impact on local residents of the mechanisms for controlling religious life that were established by the shogunate in the first half of the seventeenth century, especially the temple registration system and the associated annual contributions and obligations. See Hur, Death and Social Order, 8–11, for remarks on sources of income of Edo temples, with special emphasis on funerary services for patrons (danna). Funerary rituals were likely more important in Buddhist temple economies after the seventeenth century, however. 12.  This kind of economic support played an important part not only in the templeshrine economies of large cities but also in rural areas. The famed merchants of Sakai, for example, are known for their patronage of the Kyoto Gozan monasteries, the Kasuga Shrine in Nara, and other well-known sites, but they also formed associations to support religious institutions in more remote areas (such as Itsukushima), anticipating the devotional cooperatives (kō) of the Edo period. Toyoda, Nihon shōnin shi, 221, 226–227. 13.  Toyoda, Nihon shōnin shi, 225. For this analysis Toyoda cites Miyamoto Mataji’s classic study Kinsei shōnin ishiki no kenkyū (Tokyo: Yuhikaku, 1941). In the late medieval period merchant donors were perceived as motivated more by self-interest and pragmatism than by

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any profound devotion. Toyoda cites critics of note, such as the Jōdo Shin leader Rennyo (1415–1499), who lamented merchants’ preoccupation with mundane matters as opposed to salvation in the next life; Catholic missionaries who complained that the Sakai and Hakata traders were a proud, irreligious sort; and the renga master Sōchō (1448–1532), who remarked that the merchants of his time were concerned exclusively with economic gain and had no interest in gods or buddhas. See Toyoda, Nihon shōnin shi, 236, 237, 238, respectively, for these reports. 14.  “Shimai Sōshitsu no yuikun jūshichi-ka-jō” (The Seventeen Injunctions of Shimai Sōshitsu),” in appendix 3 of Ihara, Japanese Family Storehouse, 245. The cited lines date to 1610 (Keichō 15). The later writer Nishikawa Joken apparently felt the need to remind skeptical readers of his Chōnin bukuro that “there is definitely a hell and a heaven after one dies.” Cited by Toyoda, Nihon shōnin-shi, 239. For Joken’s complete text (written in 1692 but not published until 1717), see Kinsei chōnin shisō, NST 59:85–174. 15.  Ihara, Japanese Family Storehouse, 60. The aforementioned Ise shōnin Kawamura Tanken exemplifies this connection between merchant prosperity and religious giving; he reportedly built a new torii for a local shrine and donated six hundred volumes of the Larger Sūtra on the Perfection of Wisdom to his neighborhood temple—although he also loaned money to villagers who were suffering the negative impact of poor harvests. Nishigaki and Matsushima, Mie-ken no rekishi, 137–138. 16.  Mogi, “Ise shōnin to hikyaku,” 27–28. 17.  “Mise hatto sahō narabi ni iken no koto.” The document is undated and I have not had access to it; Gotō says it is full of “humane counsel.” Gotō, Ise shōnin, 192, 194. 18.  Gotō, Ise shōnin, 195. Injunctions against joining lay religious sodalities (kō) are also prominent in these prescriptive texts, suggesting a perceived surge in the number of such collectives. 19.  Igon (Last Words), also known as Sōchiku isho, cited in Gotō, Ise shōnin, 217. Mitsui Takahira’s compilation was purportedly inspired by the earlier remarks of his father, Mitsui Takatoshi. 20.  Cited in Gotō, Ise shōnin, 214. 21.  Gotō, Ise shōnin, 202–203. A critical edition of Chōnin kōkenroku is contained in Kinsei chōnin shisō, NST 59:175–233. For an English translation, see Mitsui Takafusa, “Some Observations on Merchants: A Translation of Mitsui Takafusa’s Chōnin kōkenroku with an Introduction and Notes,” trans. E. S. Crawcour, Transactions of the Asiatic Society of Japan, third series, 8 (1962): 31–123. 22.  To underscore his message Takafusa relates how a wealthy Ise merchant from Matsuzaka, Nakagawa Seizaburō, became utterly engrossed in Buddhism after inheriting his father’s money-changing businesses in Kyoto, Osaka, and Edo. Seizaburō, his brother, and their wives and daughters all took the tonsure—the business fell into neglect, the shop clerks mishandled the trading, and in the end, we are told, the company went under. The tale is translated by Crawcour in Mitsui, “Some Observations on Merchants,” 96–99. 23.  Gotō, Ise shōnin, 206. 24.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 438, 440. As noted in chapter 3, Jikigyō describes the karmic retribution that awaited wrongdoers in similar terms in his Ichiji, 503a, and his Osoegaki, 523b, 528b, 534b. 25.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 429. The remarks attributed to Jikigyō here agree with views that he expressed in his own writings.

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26.  Sanjuichinichi no on-maki, 432. In the Edo period the value of samurai stipends was calculated based on units of rice volume called koku; one koku is equivalent to about 180 liters. 27.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 440. “Gods and buddhas” here is an interpretive translation of shinryo bodai. 28.  Getsugyō Sōjū has been credited, for example, with the authorship of a “transmission text” (tsutaegaki), Jūni bosatsu shusshō no mōshi-tsutaegaki, that is fundamentally a collection of incantatory verses and ritual formulae (fusegi); it also sets out correlations between the twelve grains (bosatsu) and the symbology of animals and directions. The work is believed to be a Genbun 5 (1740) copy of the original by a certain Nakano Gihei. FYSS 5, Kinsei 3:67–72. 29.  Takano Toshihiko, Kinsei Nihon no kokka kenryoku to shūkyō (1989. Reprint, Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai, 1991), 279. 30.  Murakami Shigeyoshi, Kindai minshū, 11. 31.  Murakami Norio, Kinsei kanjin, 4. 32.  In 1613 the shogunate designated Shōgoin and Daigōji Sanbōin as the head temples, respectively, of the Honzan and Tōzan denominations of Shugendō, and it followed up five years later with a decree, explicitly designed to suppress nise yamabushi, to the effect that all mountain ascetics must be enrolled in one of these lines. Takano, Kinsei Nihon no kokka, 104–105. 33.  More precisely, mountain ascetics and other practitioners now needed permission to “rent out shops,” misekashi suru—i.e., urban bases for catering to local followers. Takano discusses the regulation of the various types of kitōsha or prayer agents (Buddhist monastics, shrine priests, Onmyōdō practitioners, blind mendicant monks, and so forth) in his Kinsei Nihon no kokka, esp. 279–287. Murakami Norio cautions, however, that the shift from medieval itinerancy to early modern residency was not always abrupt; Murakami Norio, Kinsei kanjin, 366. Hayashi Makoto shows that the legislation ostensibly aimed at clergy (Shoshū jiin hatto [Laws for the temples of the various sects] and Shosha negi kannushi hatto [Laws for the priests of various shrines], dated 1665.7.11; and Jisha ryō shuin jō [Temple and shrine fief redseal certification], dated 1665.8.17) had a profound effect on nondenominational religious practitioners as well. He analyzes the import of the edicts in the 1660s and 1670s that directly targeted practitioners who were not temple or shrine staff. Hayashi Makoto, “Bakufu jisha bugyō to kanjin no shūkyōsha: yamabushi, komusō, onmyōji,” in Minshū Bukkyō no teichaku, ed. Sueki Fumihiko et al. (Tokyo: Kōsei Shuppansha, 2010), 247–249. 34.  That is, unless they were identified as ihō jahō, i.e., Christian or fuju-fuse Nichiren Buddhist teachings. Takano, Kinsei Nihon no kokka, 280. 35.  Hayashi, “Bakufu,” 249. 36.  Murakami Norio, Kinsei kanjin, 29, 361. 37.  Hayashi, “Bakufu,” 249, attributes the original phrase “kinseiteki no kanjin sekai” to Hosaka Hirooki. 38.  See, e.g., Murakami Norio’s work on Kyoto religious agents who had once been relatively independent but began to work more closely with temples and shrines in the Genroku and Kyōhō eras; some even became abbots. Murakami Norio, Kinsei kanjin, 358, 359, 363. 39.  Arimoto Masao, Kinsei Nihon no shūkyō shakaishi (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2002), 33–34. 40.  Arimoto, Kinsei Nihon, 35–36. Sagami corresponds to much of today’s Kanagawa prefecture, and Musashi mostly to present-day Saitama prefecture and Tokyo.

Notes to Pages 122–124

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41.  Arimoto, Kinsei Nihon, 39, 40. Arimoto uses the phrase “han-shirōto hōja” (semifreelance religious practitioners) to refer to these individuals. During moon vigils (tsukimachi) and sun vigils (himachi) people congregated on set days to await and celebrate the rising of the moon and the sun. 42.  Other recognized professionals here would include the blind mendicant monks (komusō), yin-yang practitioners (onmyōji), begging monks (gannin bōzu), and various mendicant entertainers who were eventually organized under the auspices of either head temples or guildlike associations. Takano, Kinsei Nihon no kokka, 286–287. 43.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 504a. 44.  For informative treatments of this class of wandering ritualist or performer, see Gerald Groemer’s “A Short History of the Gannin” and “The Arts of the Gannin.” 45.  The expression Fuji gannin may have had a derogatory nuance in some quarters of the later Fuji movement, however. See, e.g., Koizumi Bunrokurō’s dismissive reference to “the ordinary Fuji prayer mendicant of the world” (seken nami Fuji gannin); Koizumi, Koizumi Bunrokurō oboegaki 87b; and Ichigyō Hana’s usage of the term in her 1784 letter to her followers (discussed below). 46.  Getsugan, Getsugan no maki, 125. 47.  Getsugan, Getsugan no maki, 125. 48.  Later in the period, yamabushi who had been accused of usurping the role of Onmyōdō diviners defended themselves by pointing out that they did not take fees for their ritual services—though in fact they privately accepted remuneration from their clients. Hayashi Makoto, “Tokugawa-Period Disputes between Shugen Organizations and Onmyōji over Rights to Practice Divination,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 21, no. 2–3 (1994): 172–174. See also Helen Hardacre’s “Conflict”; and Arimoto, Kinsei Nihon, 32–42. 49.  The same sort of emphasis on voluntary as opposed to fee-based services may be found in the self-representations of other unlicensed groups of the Tokugawa period. For example, in the eighteenth century, Sekimon Shingaku leaders repeatedly denied their professional status and cautioned their traveling preachers not to accept payment under any circumstances. Sawada, Confucian Values, 158. 50.  Kanda Hideo assisted me in my thinking on this point. 51.  For the above quoted lines, see Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 432. 52.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 439. 53.  According to Itō and Yasumaru (Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, NST 67:444, editors’ headnote), along with compassion (jihi), sympathy (nasake), and sincerity (shōjiki), fusoku was one of the four cardinal virtues that Jikigyō taught his followers. They add that according to some accounts, Jikigyō Miroku lived for four more days (beyond the thirteenth day of the seventh month of 1733, as stated in Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 449–450) and “uttered these four words at the very end, as he breathed his last.” Ōtani is probably correct in dismissing the view that Jikigyō Miroku advocated these four values as such (Kakugyōkei, 47); as a set phrase they appear more often in the discourse of his disciple and posthumous scribe, Koizumi Bunrokurō, than in Jikigyō’s own writings. See, e.g., Koizumi, Koizumi Bunrokurō oboegaki, 84b, 131a, 180b, 195a. On the other hand, all four ideas are compatible with Jikigyō’s remarks in his other writings. Moreover, the ascetic refers explicitly to fusoku in his Oketsujō, 517a; as well as in the farewell letter addressed to his siblings in the Kobayashi family of Ise Kawakami, dated Kyōhō 18 [1733].2.17; Jikigyō Miroku, Betsuri no tegami, in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 176.

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Notes to Pages 124–127

54.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 442; see 437 for an almost identical statement. 55.  Ishida Baigan, Goroku (shō), NST 42:34. 56.  Ishida Baigan, Goroku (shō), NST 42:36. 57.  Shibata Minoru, “Sekimon Shingaku ni tsuite,” in NST 42:474. 58.  The late Tokugawa physiognomist Mizuno Nanboku (1760?–1834?) similarly correlated dietary self-restraint with the equilibration of rank and fortune, but he did not tie this teaching to a vision of collective salvation. Sawada, Practical Pursuits, 42–50. 59.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 505b. See also Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 524b. 60.  E.g., Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 532b, 525b, 528a, as well as Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 439– 440, and the rendition in Sanjūichinichi no otsutae, 544b. 61.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 440. 62.  Sanjūichinichi no otsutae, in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 544b. I cite the latter version of Jikigyō’s Thirty-One Days here because of its relative clarity in comparison with Sanjūichinichi no onmaki. The thrust of the remarks on this point are the same in both texts. 63.  A later Fujidō document, Fujidō negaitate otadashi ni tsuki okotaegaki, attests that Ganshin had four disciples, of whom Getsugan was the most “fruitful” and who received the transmission of the lineage. Note that another Ganshin follower, Seigan (Mori Ihei, d. 1704) has also been identified as the fifth successor in Kakugyō’s lineage. Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 83–84. 64.  The details of the Murakami succession are contained in Senshūin kakochō, a document first drafted in 1848–1854 by Yamada Junzō, the head priest of the Murakami ancestral temple, Senshūin (a Pure Land Buddhist temple), cited in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 79–83. The community of Fuji devotees who identified with the Murakami line was closely associated with the Hitoana site in Shizuoka Prefecture, where Kakugyō allegedly carried out his religious disciplines and passed away. By all accounts Murakami Kōsei was an energetic individual who influenced a significant cohort of followers during his lifetime; he is best remembered today for his thoroughgoing restoration of the Sengen Shrine complex in Upper Yoshida in 1739. See Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 83–87. 65.  He asserts that it was not until the early nineteenth century that Fujikō became clearly divided into the so-called Murakami and Miroku branches, and that members of the two lines remained on amicable terms even then; Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 88. 66.  Sakubei (d. 1735) is identified in other sources by the title Kogatanaya (knife seller); his religious name was Nichigyō Tōjū. 67.  Jikigyō Miroku, cited by Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 97. Denunciations of members of Getsugyō’s circle, as well as the (possibly contrived) allegation that Getsugyō himself lacked discipline in his relations with women, also appear in the writings of Jikigyō Miroku’s disciple and posthumous scribe, Koizumi Bunrokurō; Koizumi, Koizumi Bunrokurō oboegaki, 98a, and esp. 189a–190a. 68.  In his official report to the authorities in early 1684 (discussed further in chapters 2 and 5), Getsugan affirmed a policy of not accepting any compensation for the amulets and talismans that he distributed. Getsugan, Getsugan no maki, 118. 69.  For a time Jikigyō Miroku and his teacher, Getsugyō, used the oshi lodge run by Tanabe Iga of Kamiyoshida; later Jikigyō transferred to Tanabe Izumi’s lodge. Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 142. 70.  Takano, “Minkan ni ikiru shūkyōsha,” 10. For a series of close studies of the history of Mount Fuji oshi, see Takano Toshihiko and Kōshū Shiryō Chōsakai, eds., Fujisan oshi no rekishiteki kenkyū (Tokyo: Yamakawa Shuppansha, 2009).

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71.  For an excellent analysis of the Tokugawa oshi phenomenon in English with reference to the Ōyama pilgrimage, see Ambros, Emplacing a Pilgrimage, 84–142. 72.  This trend grew especially after Jikigyō died, as exemplified by his disciple, Tanabe Jurōemon, who acquired oshi status soon afterward. 73.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 428. 74.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 439–440. 75.  Sanjūichinichi no otsutae, in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 544b. Jikigyō’s harsh denunciations of the commercial dimension of the activities of religious professionals are contained not only in the Thirty-One Days but in his earlier writings as well. See, e.g., Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 532b, 525b, 528b. 76.  See, e.g., Miyazaki, “Fuji e no inori,” 140. 77.  Ishida Baigan, Ishida Baigan zenshū, ed. Shibata Minoru, 2 vols. (Osaka: Seibundō, 1972) 2:332. Like Jikigyō, the Shingaku founder also faulted the priests who were commissioned to offer such prayers, presumably because they should know better. 78.  See, for example, Jikigyō, Ichiji, 503a, and the coda to Jikigyō, Oketsujō, 523a, which recommends reciting the core formula of the ominuki (kōkū taisoku myōō sokutai jippō kōkū) ten times. 79.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 450. The use of “kō” to refer to devotees of Mount Fuji in the collective seems incongruous and may be later editors’ choice of language. 80.  Editors’ headnote, NST 67:450. Jikigyō’s request to Jūrōemon to impart fusui no kaji to the members is not contained in the Sanjūichinichi no otsutae version of the text, however. 81.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 433. The term “medicinal water” (kusurimizu) does not ­appear in the Sanjūichinichi no otsutae version of this Kyōhō 18.6.20 entry (540b–541a). 82.  Notice n. 6632 (2626), dated Kanpō 2.9.4; Edo machibure shūsei, 5:128a–b. 83.  Notice n. 6633 (2627), dated Kanpō 2.9.9, Edo machibure shūsei, 5:128b. 84.  According to Koizumi Bunrokurō’s account, Jikigyō said he received this ominuki from his teacher, Getsugyō, when he first committed himself to the Fuji faith at the age of seventeen. Koizumi, Koizumi Bunrokurō oboegaki, 181a. 85.  Sawato Hirosato erroneously dates this city ordinance (machibure) to the ninth month of An’ei 4 on page 150 of his “Fuji shinkō girei to Edo bakufu no Fujikō torishimari rei: Juiteki shinkō girei toshite no Edo-shi e no kanjin o meguru mibunseiteki shakai chitsujo no dōyō o megutte,” Hosei Daigaku Bungakubu kiyō 47 (2001), but correctly to the fifth month of An’ei 4 on page 151. The same text is reproduced in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 352, who in turn cites Inobe’s Fuji no shinkō (n.p). I have not found the 1775 edict in Edo machibure shūsei; however, it is replicated in the Kansei 7 (1795) ordinance, notice n. 10179, Edo machibure shūsei, 10:9b–10a. 86.  Notice n. 10179, Edo machibure shūsei, 10:9b–10a. 87.  Ichigyō Hana’s letter is reproduced in Okada, “Fujikō to Jujutsu,” 207–208, under the title “Jikigyō jikiden no dōgyō e,” and in FYSS 5, Kinsei 3:76–77. 88.  She goes on to explain that “the teaching of Jikigyō Miroku kū is to regard the Sun and the Moon as one’s foundation; to strive conscientiously, in each case, in one’s allotted family occupation, [whether] warrior, farmer, artisan, or merchant; to behave in accordance with one’s position; to endeavor to have compassion and pity on others; and to refrain from confusing people. It is [to strive] morning and night, with due reverence, for peace in the world and security and tranquility in the country; and for all people, the grasses and trees, and even the scaled creatures [of the sea] to earnestly help each other and have safety in the household,

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without ever forgetting the two [principles of] loyalty and filial piety; and [it is] to pay obeisance to Fuji Sengen Daibosatsu as one’s True Father and Mother.” Ichigyō Hana, cited in Okada, “Fujikō to jujutsu,” 207. 89.  Okada, “Fujikō to jujutsu,” 204. 90.  “Upāya-type thinking” (hōben-gamashiki suji) likely refers to a mentality that legitimizes wrongful practices as a means to an end, in this case the presumption that prayer rituals and alms solicitation are acceptable ways of gaining followers and income. Cf. the similar Shōgōin Shugendō argument for divination as upāya in 1786; Hayashi, “Tokugawa-Period Disputes,” 184. 91.  Ichigyō, cited in Okada, “Fujikō to jujutsu” 207. 92.  Translation tentative. Ichigyō, cited in Okada, “Fujikō to jujutsu” 207–208. 93.  For comparable tensions between Konkōkyō and local yamabushi somewhat later in the Edo period, see Katsurajima, “Meishin, inshi, jakyō,” 255. 94.  The Kansei legislation included, for example, ordinances that required migrants to return to their home villages and farmwork; related measures included establishing a workhouse for day laborers (ninsoku yoseba). On the laborer camps, see Katō Takashi, “Governing Edo,” in Edo and Paris: Urban Life and the State in the Early Modern Era, ed. J. L. McClain, John M. Merriman, and Ugawa Kaoru (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994), 60. Later prohibitions of Fujikō were also related to shogunal efforts to control a broad range of unauthorized social and religious activities, not only this particular group. 95.  Notice n. 10179 (5529), Edo machibure shūsei, 10:9. 96.  Other aspects of the statement recall reports of youths coercing “donations” from merchants during festivals associated with, for example, the important Edo temple, Sensōji. See Takeuchi Makoto, “Festivals and Fights,” in McClain, Merriman, and Ugawa, Edo and Paris, 397. 97.  Government actions against the movement eventually also exacerbated tensions between Fujikō members and religious professionals associated with Mount Fuji. In the aftermath of the Kansei-era edicts, the Yoshida oshi who controlled the northern trail pressured the authorities in an effort to preserve their ritual prerogatives and livelihood in the face of the growing activism of the kō members. By this time the oshi were gaining much of their income from distributing Fuji talismans and amulets (loosely, fusegi), an activity that competed with Fujikō members’ similar practices, including the distribution of Fuji healing water (Fuji kaji mizu). In the aftermath of the 1795 Fujikō prohibition and its reiteration in 1797, people apparently began to refuse the Yoshida oshi’s talismans because they thought the pilgrimage coordinators’ activities were included in the prohibition. The problem was compounded by the fact that the oshi made their living from servicing the great numbers of kō members who undertook the climb. For an impressive analysis of the complex dynamic between these competing groups in the late Tokugawa period, see Sawato, “Torishimari.” Twelve Edo city edicts against Fujikō-associated activities, issued from 1742 to 1849 (including eight outright bans of the group), are reproduced in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 351–365. 98.  See Jikigyō, Ichiji, 503b. Similar statements appear in Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 438 and 439: “Having a single human being enter the path of truth is far superior to that of collecting [funds] for [Buddhist] halls and temples, or giving alms.”

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Chapter 5: Jikigyō MirokuMiroku’s Final Austerity 1.  The relevant portion is reproduced in Gotaigyō, NST 67:473–478, and translated by Tyler, “Great Practice,” 307–312. 2.  1620 was a kōshin (ennen) year, so it may have been used to “date” various key events in Kakugyō’s life in the Book. See Tyler, “Great Practice,” 259–260. 3.  Gotaigyō, NST 67:479–480, trans. Royall Tyler, “Great Practice,” 314–315. See Tyler’s endnotes for details regarding the officials mentioned in the account. Material in brackets added. 4.  The following additional exchange, contained in the elided portion of Tyler’s translation of this episode (with minor adaptions and inserted material in brackets), reveals the compilers’ respectful but self-assured image of themselves as bona fide ascetics and healers, ready to serve the government. The assembled Elders asked us, “Devotees of Fuji [Fuji no gannin], what deity do you honor?” We answered: “Our honor goes to these and to no other: we revere our Dual-Heart Parent, and in addition we esteem the Five Grains. Morning and evening we faithfully worship Fuji Sengen Daibosatsu, and Namu Nitten and Gatten [Moon and Sun]. We honor no other deity.” Lord Doi Ōi-no-kami said: “However that may be, we must commit the three of you to jail.” We replied: “For you to jail bandits, pirates or the like would indeed be for you to serve compassion above all. And if it is in the best interests of many tens of thousands of sentient beings to jail certain ascetics who call down the compassion of the Sun, Moon, and Three Treasures upon those who are incurably ill, then far be it from us to object. We are at your orders.” Trans. Tyler, “Great Practice,” 315. 5.  Getsugan, Getsugan no maki, 114. The Kirishitan bugyō are identified as Hayashi Nobuatsu (1644–1732, shogunal Confucian scholar) and Tanaka Sonjūrō. The Edo city magistrate issued the formal summons on Tenna 3.12.17 (February 2, 1684), and Getsugan reported for interrogation on the following day. His subsequent written report, Getsugan koji kuji no maki, is dated Jōkyō 1.2.6 (March 21, 1684). Iwashina photographed the original text, which he transcribes in Fujikō no rekishi, 114–127; at the time it was held in the collection of the Kozawa, a Yoshida oshi family. Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 111, 112. I have not identified any corroborating reports, such as a government record of the interrogation. 6.  Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 112. For an account of the anti-Christian policies of the seventeenth century, see Namlin Hur, Death and the Social Order, 79–106. 7.  The nenbutsu and the daimoku are ritual invocations of, respectively, Amida Buddha (associated with Pure Land Buddhism) and the Lotus Sutra (the focus of Nichiren Buddhism). 8.  Reading annon 安穏 for annon 安恩. 9.  Getsugan, Getsugan no maki, 120. 10.  He also cites the authorities’ successful circumscription of organized devotional religions. Shimazono, “Dentō no keishō to kakushin,” in Inoue et al., Shinshūkyō jiten, 9 and 13b–c. 11.  In the contemporary Japanese context, Tullio Lobetti distinguishes lay ascetics who place themselves under the supervision of a religious professional from those who group together with more experienced lay practitioners or “practice leaders.” The latter are generally not affiliated with any identifiable religious group and differ little in status from the rest of the practitioners—they are simply more experienced. Tullio F. Lobetti, Ascetic Practices in Japanese Religion (London: Routledge, 2014), 67.

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12.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 504a–b. In the text the statement submitted to the government is called Ichiji fusetsu ohiraki Miroku no miyo no goshomotsu (The Book of the Unspoken Word Revealed: The Age of Miroku). In other words, it is identified as an earlier version of (a portion of) the received text (Ichiji fusetsu no maki) that Jikigyō completed in 1729. 13.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 504b. 14.  See Jikigyō, Ichiji, 506a. 15.  E.g., Jikigyō, Ichiji, 503b. 16.  The text states that a great earthquake occurred on Genroku 16 [1703].12.22, and also that “sand rained down from Mount Fuji” on Hōei 4 [1707].11.23. Jikigyō, Ichiji, 504b. The volcanic ash continued to fall well into the twelfth lunar month of that year, mostly over areas east and northeast of the mountain; it reportedly accumulated several centimeters thick on the ground and severely damaged agricultural production in the area. See Inoue Kimio,“Fujisan Hōei funka to minami Kantō no higai: Chōkikan ni oyonda dosa saigai,” Tama no ayumi 158 (May 2015): 4‑5. For analysis of the historical documentation of the 1707 eruption, see Koyama Masato, “Fujisan no rekishi funka sōran,” in Fuji kazan, ed. Aramaki Shigeo, et al. (Fuiyoshidashi: Yamanashi-ken Kankyō Kagaku Kenkyūsho, 2007), 129–130. 17.  Jikigyō, Ichiji, 505a. 18.  Later activism along these lines includes the 1789 submission (by a Fujikō practitioner called Shōgyō Kaizan) to the senior shogunal councilor (rōjū) Matsudaira Sadanobu (1758–1829) of a petition that called attention to the Age of Miroku; and an incident in 1847 in which an Edo scroll-mounting artisan called Denjū held up the palanquin of a shogunal inspector (ōmetsuke) as it was about to enter Edo castle in order to deliver a similar petition in the name of a peasant who signed himself “Shōshichi, son of Kiemon.” For a thorough discussion, especially of the 1847 event with reference to Fujidō, see Miyazaki Fumiko, “Minshū no shūkyō undō: Fujidō ni okeru risōsei tsuikyū no undo,” in Kaikoku, Kōza Nihon kinseishi 7, ed. Aoki Michio and Kawachi Hachirō (Tokyo: Yūhikaku, 1985), 272–315. For the text of these petitions and related materials, see Fujidō negaitate otadashi ni tsuki okotaegaki, Hatogaya-shi no komonjo 3, ed. Okada Hiroshi and Hatogaya-shi Bunkazai Hōgo Iinkai (Hatogaya-shi: Hatogaya-shi Kyōiku Iinkai, 1977). 19.  Nishigaki and Matsushima, Mie-ken no rekishi, 175–176. 20.  See the timeline in Gotō, Ise shōnin, 264–265; and Yoshinaga, “Ise shōnin,” 64 [295], for other possible factors in the decline. The story of the Tomiyama household’s rise and fall did not escape Mitsui Takafusa’s attention in his Chōnin kōkenroku—he describes the Tomiyama as “an unorganized rabble wandering about blindly.” Mitsui, “Some Observations,” 92. As Crawcour cautions, Takafusa probably exaggerates the recklessness of the Tomiyama; the Mitsui and Tomiyama families were related by marriage, but their Edo outlets were fierce competitors. E. S. Crawcour, quoted in Mitsui, “Some Observations,” 91n98. 21.  Conrad Totman, Early Modern Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 291–292. 22.  Totman, Early Modern Japan, 295–296; Tsuji Tatsuya, “Politics in the Eighteenth Century,” trans. Harold Bolitho, in The Cambridge History of Japan, vol. 4: Early Modern Japan, ed. John W. Hall (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 451–452. 23.  Totman, Early Modern Japan, 306. 24.  Tsuji, “Politics,” 452. On the causes of the 1732 crisis, I have also consulted L. M. Cullen, A History of Japan, 1582–1941: Internal and External Worlds (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 91–92.

Notes to Pages 141–143

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25.  Iwashina says that the holograph of Osoegaki no maki is a scroll of about thirteen meters in length, consisting of twenty-three pages; Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 175. For an excellent analysis of Jikigyō’s view of the need for government reform with particular reference to this text, see Miyazaki, “Fujidō no rekishikan,” 261–268. 26.  Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 525b–526a. Jikigyō implies that the tenures of Tokugawa Tsunayoshi and his successor (Tokugawa Ienobu, 1662–1712) were short-lived because of this and other types of wrongdoing. Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu comes in for particular censure because, allegedly, he deceptively influenced Tsunayoshi in this regard. 27.  Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 528a–528b. According to the text, people were killed in considerable numbers throughout Japan because of the ban against taking life (presumably because they were unjustly punished for violations); and rice and money were “thrown away” at ordinary people’s expense. For a reasoned assessment of Tsunayoshi’s policy and its impact, see Beatrice Bodart Bailey, “The Laws of Compassion,” Monumenta Nipponica 40, no. 2 (Summer 1985): 163–189. 28.  Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 533. 29.  The work has a preface dated the third month of Kyōhō 16 [1731]. 30.  Tokugawa Muneharu, Onchi seiyō, in Nihon seidōron, NST 38:155–168. I have also consulted the English translation by Tim Ervin Cooper III in his “Tokugawa Yoshimune versus Tokugawa Muneharu: Rival Visions of Benevolent Rule” (PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley, 2010), 143–151; and Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 170–171. The policies that Muneharu adopted during his tenure reportedly brought financial relief to Nagoya, but they were in direct contrast to the Kyōhō austerity campaign and ultimately incurred Yoshimune’s displeasure. The Owari lord was eventually charged with promoting “extravagance” (shashi) and placed under full house arrest. 31.  Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 530b–531a. Jikigyō does not hesitate to complain even about the expenses involved in paying respects at Nikkō, the shrine dedicated to the Tokugawa founder, Ieyasu. 32.  In Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 531b–532a, Mōka (southeastern Tochigi) and Shimodate (western Ibaraki) are criticized, while Aizu, Utsunomiya, and Mito are praised. 33.  Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 531a. When Jikigyō was sixty he had announced to his followers that he was destined to pass away at sixty-eight (presumably based on an understanding received from Sengen). 34.  Jikigyō, Betsuri no tegami, 177–178. The letter is addressed to Kobayashi Jin’uemon and Shintarō, dated 1733.2.17, and signed “Itō Ihei, Jikigyō Miroku bosatsu.” In it Jikigyō also relates that he and his family had moved to the residence of Koizumi Bunrokurō after his house in Edo had burned down the previous spring (1732.3.28), and that he had traveled in eastern Japan for proselytizing purposes later that year. He does not mention in the missive that he planned to fast to death, but he apparently sent the letter to Kawakami together with his Osoegaki no maki, in which he clearly articulates his resolution (quoted above). Iwashina reports that he had no access to the original letter and that the version reproduced in his Fujikō no rekishi is based on a Bunka 5 [1808] copy made by Shingyō Sankō, a follower of the Fujidō leader Kotani Sanshi. (Iwashina adds that “Shintarō” may be a copyist error for “Zentarō,” which is more consistent with the name used in other sources related to the Kobayashi family.) Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 179. 35.  For a transcription of this letter, titled Osakijō, see Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 179– 182. At the time of Iwashina’s writing the holograph was in the collection of Itō Kenkichi; Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 553.

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36.  “Hito no shinbutsu o ryō no ashi no ha ni sennin tsumete.” “Ashi no ha” here means wooden platform sandals (geta), which are held above the ground by two “teeth” (ha). Depending on how one interprets “hito no shinbutsu” 人のしん仏, the idea may be that Jikigyō carried out his last climb in oneness with the true hearts (“buddha-minds”) of a thousand (symbolically, countless) people. 37.  Jikigyō, Osakijō, 181. In this letter Jikigyō also takes the opportunity to repeat his complaints against “the official, Takama” and various other evildoers who, he says, will inevitably be punished in the next life. 38.  On this point I follow Ōtani, Kakugyō-kei, 60. 39.  Koizumi describes the event in Koizumi Bunrokurō oboegaki, 89b–90a, 147a–148a. Nakaganmaru Toyomune’s notes are cited from a 1910 reprint of his Kyōso Miroku kū yuisho denki, in Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 191–192. 40.  Although the variants of this text contain elisions and elaborations, the account of Jikigyō’s passing is consistent with Koizumi Bunrokurō’s description—perhaps not unexpectedly, given that the latter helped Jūrōemon compile the Thirty-One Days. 41.  Koizumi, Koizumi Bunrokurō oboegaki, 147a–b. 42.  Tanabe Jūrōemon made his living by selling water in the Ōyukiai area. 43.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 425. 44.  Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 188–189. 45.  The Thirty-One Days adds that as Jikigyō was about to expire, he clasped his hands in the position of the “three luminaries combined” (sankō no musubi gasshō), which (according to the editors of Sanjūichinichi no on-maki) was a style of bowing, peculiar to the Fuji group, in which one brings one’s hands together in a prayer-like gesture in front of the chest, with the thumb and forefinger of one hand forming a circle, representing the sun, and with two fingers of the other hand forming the shape of the crescent moon. The ritual formulae (gomonku) that Jikigyō is said to have recited are also specified; see Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 450. 46.  Nakaganmaru, Kyōso Miroku kū yuisho denki, cited by Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 189–192. 47.  Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 450. 48.  The death narrative in the variant text, Sanjūichinichi no otsutae, is less detailed but otherwise agrees with the above description; see Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 551. Takichi’s later commentary, however, adds a coda to the above account to the effect that Jikigyō lived on for two more days, evidently reflecting a difference in opinion in the movement about the exact time of the ascetic’s death. Nakaganmaru, Kyōso Miroku kū yuisho denki, cited by Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 192. 49.  Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 175. 50.  Ōtani, Kakugyō-kei, 59. In the closing lines of the Addendum, Jikigyō announces that he will go to the Tuśita heaven (the summit of Mount Fuji) to become an “inspector” who will oversee the beings of the world (sangoku no shin no aratame-yakunin). Jikigyō, Osoegaki, 534b. 51.  Tyler, “Great Practice,” 261. 52.  Patrick Olivelle observes in this vein (in reference to ancient Indian religion) that “food is the central element of a cosmic transaction that maintains both the social and physical cosmos.” Patrick Olivelle, “The Deconstruction of the Body in Indian Asceticism,” in Asceticism, ed. Vincent L. Wimbush and Richard Valantasis (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 200. 53.  Iwashina seems to take this view as well; Fujikō no rekishi, 181.

Notes to Pages 146–150

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54.  He allegedly taught (for example, in Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 429) that samurai who served their lords with integrity would be reborn at a higher rank, and that members of the other three classes who worked hard in their respective occupations would also enjoy a good life in the future, commensurate with their merit. See also chapter 3 of this volume for Jikigyō’s ethical teachings. 55.  See Herman Ooms’ seminal study of such popularizing ideologues, notably Suzuki Shōsan, in his Tokugawa Ideology: Early Constructs, 1570–1680 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985). 56.  Reading tenjitsu 天日 as tenka 天下. 57.  Koizumi, Koizumi Bunrokurō oboegaki, 85b–86a. “World salvation” renders saido, which more precisely denotes the efforts of a buddha or deity to enlighten deluded beings. “Those above” is my translation of gozen, which is an honorific for persons of higher status, or, in a religious context, an object of worship. In this passage the term might encompass both nuances. 58.  Émile Durkheim, Suicide: A Study in Sociology, trans. J. A. Spaulding (New York: The Free Press, 1951). 59.  Pamela J. Stewart and Andrew Strathern, “The Ultimate Protest Statement: Suicide as a Means of Defining Self-Worth among the Duna of the Southern Highlands of Papua New Guinea,” Journal of Ritual Studies 17, no. 1 (2003): 80, 86. 60.  For this notion, see, for example, Seidel, “Mountains and Hells,” or Hori Ichirō’s classic statement in his Folk Religion in Japan, 141–179. 61.  Religious suicide has a long history throughout Asia. Voluntary death through fasting was a “respected way of ending life” in the Indian religious world; Patrick Olivelle, “Deconstruction,” 201. In the East Asian Buddhist context, see James Benn, Burning for the Buddha: Self-Immolation in Chinese Buddhism (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2007); Mark L. Blum, “Collective Suicide at the Funeral of Jitsunyo: Mimesis or Solidarity?,” in Death and the Afterlife in Japanese Buddhism, ed. Jacqueline I. Stone and Mariko Namba Walter (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2008), 137–174; and D. Max Moerman, “Passage to Fudaraku: Suicide and Salvation in Premodern Japanese Buddhism,” in The Buddhist Dead, ed. Bryan Cuevas and Jacqueline I. Stone (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2007), 266–296. 62.  Morimoto Iwatarō, “Nihon no Bukkyō-kei miira,” Kaibogaku zasshi 4 (Aug. 1993): 382. Among the standard publications on Japanese mummification are two volumes edited by the Nihon Miira Kenkyū Gurūpu, Nihon Chūgoku miira shinkō no kenkyū (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1993) and Nihon miira no kenkyū (1969; rev., Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1993). Drawing on earlier scholarship, Morimoto, who researched twenty-four putatively Buddhist examples, classifies them into four groups based on what he takes to be their dominant religious identity: (i) mummies of individuals dedicated to Amida Buddha and the Pure Land; (ii) mummies of Mount Yudono ascetics, allegedly influenced by Shingon notions of sokushin jōbutsu; (iii) mummies of individuals devoted to the future buddha, Miroku, and rebirth in his Tuśita heaven; and (iv)  miscellaneous other mummies—Shugendō practitioners, Mount Fuji ascetics, Yakushi Nyorai devotees, and so forth. Morimoto, “Miira,” 384–385. 63.  Six of these mummies were discovered by researchers in the early 1960s. See Ichiro Hori, “Self-Mummified Buddhas in Japan: An Aspect of the Shugen-Do (“Mountain Asceticism”) Sect,” History of Religions 1, no. 2 (Winter 1962): 222–242. 64.  In his article “Devotion in Flesh and Bone: The Mummified Corpses of Mount Yudono Ascetics in Edo-Period Japan,” 25–51, Castiglioni incorporates critical analysis of earlier

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scholarship on Japanese mummification as well as rich insights into the sokushinbutsu phenomenon and discourse in general. For his comprehensive study of the Yudono ascetics and their death practices, see also his “Ascesis and Devotion: The Mount Yudono Cult in Early Modern Japan.” 65.  See Castiglioni, “Devotion in Flesh and Bone,” 30–31, for a description of the food abstentions that the issei gyōnin practiced during their “one-thousand-day” retreats. 66.  Morimoto, “Miira,” 385–386. See also Hori, “Self-Mummified Buddhas,” 227. Various embalming methods were used: dehydration, smoking, soaking in saltwater, and, in one case, evisceration and packing with lime. 67.  Morimoto, “Miira,” 384–385. Shungi (b. 1608?), who was affiliated with Hōkaiji in Kamakura, died in Jōkyō 3 [1686].2.15 and was interred two days later. For more details on his case, see Nihon Miira Kenkyū Gurūpu, ed., Nihon miira no kenkyū, 41–47. 68.  Morimoto, “Miira,” 391. The event is dated to 1736. 69.  Morimoto, “Miira,” 390. 70.  The legendary acts of compassion that have been attributed to suicidal or selfmutilating ascetics abound. Accounts of extreme bodily self-denial include, for example, the legend of Tetsumonkai (d. 1829), an important Yudono ascetic. He is said to have gouged out one of his eyes as part of a concerted prayer ritual for the relief of an epidemic eye disease in Edo, and to have donated his scrotum to a prostitute to serve as a protective talisman for her work in the pleasure quarters. Morimoto, “Miira,” 389. In reality, these mutilations probably took place after the body was mummified; Castiglioni, “Devotion in Flesh and Bone,” 38. 71.  The event took place on Enpō 5 [1677].8.15. Anzan, originally from the Tsuru district of Kai (today’s Yamanashi Prefecture), headed the local temple, Hofukuji, before retiring to a mountain hermitage in the area. Over the course of his life he practiced under several Zen masters, including the Ōbaku Zen master, Shōtō Mokuan (1611–1684). Zengaku daijiten, 203b. 72.  See, respectively, Morimoto, “Miira,” 391; and Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 100–101. Although the entrance to Shōjin o-ana is quite narrow, it opens up into a relatively spacious cavern in which one can stand upright. 73.  The terms nyūjō and the nearly synonymous nyūmetsu were used generically to indicate the death of a revered person in Japan. However, reference to a mountain ascetic or other religious practitioner (not necessarily a self-identified Buddhist) “entering nirvana” also implied that the individual had undertaken purposive disciplines while alive in order to attain a higher spiritual state (and/or to benefit others) after death. Ōtani’s critical remark regarding the inappropriateness from a Buddhist perspective of Jikigyō’s use of the term nyūjō to refer to his suicide ignores these larger associations. See Ōtani, Kakugyō-kei, 59–60. 74.  Zenjō may also refer more generally to ascetic practice on a mountain, or even to the mountain peak itself. 75.  According to Koizumi Bunrokurō’s testimony, Jikigyō removed this clothing shortly before he died and commissioned Tanabe Jūrōemon to return it to his family after descending the mountain. He allegedly bequeathed his flint box to Bunrokurō and his ink stone to another follower, Nagata Rihei. Koizumi, Koizumi Bunrokurō oboegaki, 148a. Jūrōemon states that Jikigyō also left to others a mirror (reportedly presented to him by a female follower) and the small bowl that Jurōemon had used to offer his teacher melted snow each day of the fast. See Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 450–451, including the editors’ headnotes.

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76.  In the Thirty-One Days these formulae are listed as follows: “The revelation of the seasonal birds; the shikuwa Words [gomonku]; the water Words; the body-hardening Words; the repentance Words; the star Words; and especially the thirteen characters that are the bright mirror of Miroku’s heart.” All refer to syllable strings believed to have been revealed to Kakugyō Tōbutsu by the god of Mount Fuji and that the founder recorded in his ominuki and fusegi-type writings. “Seasonal birds” refers to the different birds that were said to appear on Mount Fuji in conjunction with the four seasons. The thirteen characters constitute the main ritual text that Fuji practitioners recited, i.e., “kōkū taisoku myōō sokutai jippō kōkū shin.” See Sanjūichinichi no on-maki, 450, including headnotes. 77.  These details are based on Tanabe Jūrōemon’s account, conveyed to Koizumi Bunrokurō and recorded in Koizumi, Koizumi Bunrokurō oboegaki, 160b–161a. 78.  See, e.g., Robert H. Sharf, “The Idolization of Enlightenment: On the Mummification of Ch’an Masters in Medieval China,” History of Religions 32, no. 1 (Aug. 1992): 7 (following the scholarship of Kosugi Kazuo and Paul Demiéville), and 23. 79.  Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 196. 80.  Iwashina, Fujikō no rekishi, 195–196. Iwashina reports the allegation, unfounded in his view, that the zushi was vandalized by envious opponents of Jikigyō and his teachings; he suggests that it collapsed simply because it was not well curated. 81.  I am assisted here by William Deal, who persuasively argues along similar lines that Heian mountain ascetics were “social protesters” whose alternative lifestyle served as “as a means of shifting social and political relationships in culturally recognizable and acceptable ways” because that lifestyle was “within the orthopraxy of traditional Japanese Buddhism.” William Deal, “Toward a Politics of Asceticism: Response to the Three Preceding Papers,” in Asceticism, ed. Vincent L. Wimbush and Richard Valantasis (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 436, 438, respectively. See also Schattschneider, Immortal Wishes, 208–209, who indicates that the austerities carried out by today’s Mount Akakura practitioners may embrace political meanings; and Tambiah’s comments on the political significance of ascetic activity in his Buddhist Saints, e.g., 334.

Conclusion 1.  Miyazaki questions the impact of Jikigyō’s teachings in the period after his death in her “Fuji e no inori,” 140. Ōtani doubts the well-known allegation that the suicide was announced in Edo on news sheets (kawaraban); Ōtani, Kakugyō-kei, 48, 61. 2.  The retrospective Fujikō lineage chart that Iwashina includes in the front matter of his Fujikō no rekishi suggests that Jikigyō Miroku had only seven committed disciples (i.e., followers who were deemed qualified to carry forward his teaching), including his two younger daughters, Man and Ichigyō Hana. His wife, Gin, his oldest daughter, Ume, and perhaps a few other family members and acquaintances were undoubtedly also followers, even though they are not listed as lineal successors. On this issue, see also Ōtani, Kakugyōkei, 61. 3.  For an example of this type of reasoning with reference to the spread of Shugendō in eastern Japan during the late Edo period, see Arimoto, Kinsei Nihon, 40, 41. The rising demand for travel as recreation has also been considered an important factor in the late Tokugawa pilgrimage boom. See, e.g., Barbara Ambros, “Geography Environment, Pilgrimage,” Nanzan Guide to Japanese Religions, ed. Paul L. Swanson and Clark Chilson

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(Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2006), 294–295; and with specific regard to the Ise pilgrimage, Teeuwen and Breen, Ise Shrines, 140–143. 4.  H. D. Harootunian’s “Late Tokugawa Culture and Thought,” in The Cambridge History of Japan, vol. 5, The Nineteenth Century, ed. Marius B. Jansen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 168–258, is representative of this view. 5.  Kanda, Nyoraikyō no seiritsu, 19, 307.

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Index

Bold page numbers refer to figures. Abé, Ryūichi, 80 Addendum (Osoegaki no maki), 93, 103, 113, 125, 141–142, 143, 147, 211n3, 231n25 Age of Miroku (Miroku no miyo): beginning, 108, 109, 139–140; bringing to fruition, 114, 140, 145, 147; duration, 106; Jikigyō on, 93–94, 105–106, 108–109, 112, 126, 127, 139–140; name of, 106, 218n74, 220n105; social justice in, 146; women’s roles in, 99 Age of the Gods (Kami no yo), 106–108, 125 agriculture, 98, 99. See also rice Akaike clan, 43, 195n99 Akakura, Mount, 97 alms solicitation, 28, 38, 44, 47, 52, 115, 120–121, 123–124, 126, 132 almsgiving, 117, 118–119, 128, 154 Amaterasu, 36, 103, 106–107, 108, 212n9 Amida Buddha, 41, 52, 94, 114, 125, 150, 220–221n112 amulets, 64–65, 131, 184n111. See also talismans Anesaki Masaharu, 180n68 Arimoto Masao, 122 Asama, 37, 38, 41, 94, 101. See also Sengen ascetic practices: of Jikigyō, 109–110, 155; of Kakugyō, 1, 34, 37, 40–41, 42, 73–74, 81, 89, 157, 204n44; political meanings, 235n81; Shugendō, 61, 157 ascetics. See mountain ascetics; Yudono ascetics Azuma kagami, 37, 38, 42 Bellah, Robert N., 8, 176n41 bodies: caves compared to, 101, 216nn52–54; as divine microcosms, 103, 120; Mount

Fuji compared to, 98–99, 101–102, 104; self-purification rituals, 102–103, 110; of women, 101–102, 104. See also ascetic practices; healing practices bodily confinement (komori), 35–36, 42, 81, 191n60 bodily extractions. See ominuki Book of Great Practice, The (Gotaigyō no maki), 34, 37, 40–41, 42, 70–71, 75, 78, 135–136 Book of Thirty-One Days, The (Sanjūichinichi no on-maki): on afterworld and karma, 113, 119; authenticity, 218n74; compilation, 93; criticism of Buddhists, 126; editors, 99, 102, 104–105, 126, 220n108; Fuji compared to human body, 98–99; instructions to disciples, 129; Jikigyō’s sermons, 93, 99, 100–101, 103, 127–128; narrative of Jikigyō’s death, 143; versions, 211n4; on women, 99, 102, 104–105 Buddha of the Everlasting Light of Sun and Moon. See Chōjitsu Gakkō Butsu Buddhism: commissioned prayers, 125, 126; deities associated with Mount Fuji, 46, 48, 52, 57, 198n127; donations to temples, 116–117, 128, 134, 222n12, 223n15; influences on Fujikō, 107–108; karma, 113–114, 221nn114–115; merchant values and, 118; pagoda texts, 53, 90; pictorial storytelling (etoki), 44–45, 52; prayer rituals, 63, 64; regulations, 22; ritual speech, 77, 80, 89; talismans, 65, 66; Tendai, 28, 189n43; Zen, 114. See also esoteric Buddhism; Pure Land

263

264  Index Buddhist clergy, 28, 125–126, 146–147, 150, 151 Castiglioni, Andrea, 150 caves: compared to woman’s body, 101, 216nn52–54; confinement in, 35–36, 41, 42; Funatsu (Gotainai), 95, 101, 191n68, 216n52; on Mount Fuji, 37, 191–192n68; religious meanings, 36–37, 191n66; Shōjin o-ana (Abstinence Cave), 151, 234n72. See also Hitoana charismatic religious activity, 21, 184n111 Chiei, 150 Chikamatsu Monzaemon, 115 Chinese talismans, 65, 202nn21–23. See also Daoist amulets Chōjitsu Gakkō Butsu (Buddha of the Everlasting Light of Sun and Moon), 94, 97, 98, 109, 211n6 chōnin (townsperson) ethos, 115, 117–118 Christianity, 5, 19, 22, 65, 137–138, 183n101, 184n105 Comaroff, Jean, 21 Confucianism. See Neo-Confucianism Confucius, 112, 118 creation: in Fuji devotionalism, 93, 94–97, 99–101; Getsugyō on, 95, 96, 100, 106; Japanese myths, 96; Jikigyō on, 95–97, 106, 129, 213n16, 213n18, 213n22; of Mount Fuji, 96 crows: characters in shape of, 67; threelegged, 54, 69, 88, 112, 199n134, 203n32, 209n97 Dainichi Buddha, 12, 43, 48, 49, 52, 57, 69, 80, 94 Daoist amulets or talismans, 65, 66, 68, 76, 84, 90 death: association with mountains, 149; mummies, 149–151, 152–153, 233n62; Six Karmic Realms fee, 187n19. See also Jikigyō Miroku, death of; suicides Deguchi Nao, 16 diligence. See economy direct prayer. See prayer, direct

dual-gendered forces: of gods, 217n70; Jikigyō on, 100–102, 108; Kakugyō and followers on, 95–96; of Mount Fuji, 94, 95–96, 99–100, 101–102, 105, 108, 157. See also Moto no Chichihaha Durkheim, Émile, 148 early modern cosmology, 16, 17 Eboshi Rock (Eboshi Iwa), 99, 100, 104, 129, 143, 144, 153, 155 economy: Jikigyō on, 115, 119–120, 124–125, 134, 140, 141–142, 145, 154; merchant values, 115, 116–118; self-restraint, 124–125, 134; Tokugawa policies, 140–142, 231n30. See also merchants Edo: city ordinances, 5; collective healing in, 71; economy, 140–141; fires, 205n51; Fuji devotionalism in, 2, 75, 118–119, 131, 133–134; Jikigyō in, 92, 115, 116, 117, 140; merchants and artisans, 116–118, 131, 140–141, 222nn7–8; population growth, 33, 116, 189n47, 221n2; rice riots, 140–141. See also Tokugawa authorities En no Gyōja, 40 Endō Hideo, 34 esoteric Buddhism: deities, 30, 195n101; Diamond Realm, 46, 48, 95; influences on Fujikō, 32, 43, 48–49, 57; mantras and mudras, 80; mountain ascetics, 149–150; prayer rituals, 64; ritual writing, 76; talismans, 65, 66, 202n22. See also Dainichi Buddha; Womb Realm Mandala folk religion (minzoku shūkyō), 3, 7, 16, 172n9, 180n68 food: abstinences from, 102, 191n60; famines, 140–141; fish, 110, 219n99; self-restraint, 124, 125, 128, 145–146, 226n58; self-starvation, 149, 150, 151, 154. See also rice frugality. See economy Fuji, Mount: compared to human body, 98–99, 101–102, 104; creation of, 96; dual-gendered forces, 94, 95–96, 99–100, 101–102, 105, 108, 157; eruption (1707), 139, 230n16; height, 37; lakes, 214n33;

Index  265 northern slope, 30, 31, 100; religious significance, 54, 60; religious title, 85, 95, 208n85; rice associated with, 94, 98, 124, 145; seasonal changes, 102; subpeaks, 219n92; sutra burials, 185n1; water from, 129–130, 131. See also Fuji images; pilgrimages to Mount Fuji Fuji deities, 46, 48, 52, 57. See also Asama; Chōjitsu Gakkō Butsu; Dainichi Buddha; dual-gendered forces; Moto no Chichihaha; Sengen Fuji devotionalism (Fuji shinkō): creation theory, 93, 94–97, 99–101; divisions, 126–127; economic views, 118–120; moral teachings, 179n62; novel ideas, 3, 114; official responses, 136–139; personal goals, 35, 44; practices, 35–40, 109–111, 123, 126; revelation process, 59–60; scholarship on, 1–2; Shugendō practitioners and, 11–12, 13, 30, 32–33, 187n24; spread, 1, 38–39, 61, 73, 75–76, 131, 205n55; use of term, 171n1; visual culture, 43, 61–62, 198n123, 198–199n128. See also Fujikō; Kakugyō Tōbutsu; pilgrimages to Mount Fuji; talismans Fuji gyōja. See Fuji practitioners Fuji images: centrality, 68–69; in late Tokugawa era, 198n124; in ominuki, 52–60, 88, 90; in pilgrimage maps, 35; production, 44; religious, 43–44, 52, 61–62; Sanzon kuson zu, 48–49, 57, 197n121, Plate 5; sun and moon in, 46, 48, 54, 74, 94, 112; woodblock prints, 48–51, 57. See also Kakugyō Tōbutsu, ritual diagrams; pilgrimage mandalas Fuji kō (lay associations): development, 1, 30, 34, 73–74, 76, 187n24; members on pilgrimages, 190n55; practices, 12; in rural areas, 73–74, 87–88; use of term, 171n1 Fuji no hitoana sōshi (The Tale of the Fuji Cave), 38, 39–40, 41, 42, 193n86, 194n92, 221n115, Plate 2 Fuji pilgrimage mandalas (Fuji sankei mandara). See Mount Fuji pilgrimage mandalas

Fuji practitioners (Fuji gyōja): activities, 109; early, 70–72, 75–76, 157–158; healing and apotropaic services, 62, 129–130, 131–133, 138; pilgrimages, 34, 109; political activism, 135–137, 139–140, 229n4, 230n18; prayer rituals, 12, 13, 128; roles, 138; women, 99, 102–103, 104–105 Fuji sankei mandara. See Mount Fuji pilgrimage mandalas Fuji shinkō. See Fuji devotionalism Fujidō, 2, 12, 13, 99, 156. See also Jikigyō Miroku fujigori (cold-water austerities), 31, 38–39, 73, 74, 80, 103, 206n60 Fujikō: divisions, 62, 126–127, 226n65, 226n67, 228n97; in Edo, 2, 131, 133–134; lineages, 57, 85–86, 88–89, 126, 131–132, 209n93, 226n63, 235n2; Murakami branch, 126, 226nn64–65; origins, 1, 2–3, 11–12; practices, 12, 17; recital texts (tonaebumi), 77, 80; regulation of, 2, 131, 133–134, 138, 228n97; scholarship on, 1–2, 3, 11–12, 13, 16, 17, 20; similarities to later religions, 14, 105, 156, 157, 158; spread, 1, 2, 14, 87–88, 102, 156, 181n74; use of term, 171n1; visual culture, 51, 52 Fujinomiya: Murayama Sengen Shrine, 39; Shiraito Falls, 42, 42, 70. See also Hitoana; Main Sengen Shrine Fujisan hachiyō kuson (The Eight Petals and Nine Deities of Mount Fuji), 49, 51, 57, 198n127 Fujisan Kōhōji, 28, 45, 189n43. See also Murayama Fujitani, Takashi, 16–17 Funatsu Cave (Gotainai), 95, 101, 191n68, 216n52 fusegi. See talismans fusoku (self-restraint), 124–125, 133, 225n53 Fusōkyōso nenpu (Chronology of Fusōkyō Founders), 73, 74, 75 gannin (prayer practitioners), 121, 122–123, 225n45. See also Fuji practitioners Ganshin (Akaba Shōzaemon), 71, 72, 74, 126, 136, 219n90, 226n63

266  Index gender. See dual-gendered forces; women Gesshin (Murakami Shichizaemon), 72, 86, 126, 137 Getsugan (Maeno Rihei): Buddhist affiliations, 137; Fuji images, 41; on healing rituals, 130; interrogation of, 136–137; lineage, 88–89, 126, 226n63; permission scrolls, 86; pilgrimages, 74–75, 205n51, 219n90; talismanic writings, 72–73, 74–75, 87, 90, 123, 209n96; texts owned by, 100; visit to Shimotsuke, 72. See also Getsugan ominuki Getsugan koji kuji no maki (Layman Getsugan’s Case Record), 72, 74–75, 205n49, 219n90 Getsugan ominuki, 57–59, 58, 88, 200n138, 219–220n100 Getsugyō Sōjū: creation theology, 95, 96, 100, 106; criticism of, 226n67; as gannin, 122–123; Jikigyō and, 92, 120, 219n90; Kyoto visit, 139; lineage, 126; religious practices, 109; talismans, 95; writings, 211n3, 212n10, 213n21, 219–220n100, 224n28 Gogyō minuki (Jikigyō), 111–112, 111, 219–220n100 goō hōin (ox-bezoar seals), 67, 69, 203n30, 203n33 Gotaigyō no maki. See Book of Great Practice Grapard, Allan G., 54, 57 gyōnin. See mountain ascetics Hachiyō kuson zu, 49, 50 Hardacre, Helen, 182n82, 215n50, 219n89 Hayashi Makoto, 121, 224n33 healing practices: in early Fuji community, 12, 70–72, 75–76, 158; expelling colds, 77–78, 79–80, 82; of Fuji devotees, 62, 129–130, 131–133, 138; Jikigyō on, 132–133; of Kakugyō, 70–72, 136, 204n44; of mountain ascetics, 61, 64, 66; ominuki and, 207n73; power of mummies, 151; by professionals, 71, 133; regulation of, 136; ritual speech, 81–82, 206–207n71, 207n73; with water,

129–130, 131, 133. See also prayer rituals; talismans hell-tour tales (jigoku meguri), 38, 41, 47 heresy, 5 heterodoxies, 4–6, 21, 138, 173n15. See also new religions Hinami kiji, 39 Hitoana: entrance, 37, 41, Plate 1; Ieyasu’s visit, 135–136, 194n96; interior, 37–38, 195n97; Kakugyō’s austerities and death, 34, 40–41, 42, 135, 151, 199n135; location, 37, 41, 43; narratives, 37–38, 39–41, 42, 47; in ominuki, 41; pilgrimage activities, 42–43, 71, 195n98; as Pure Land, 194n96, 195n99; religious activities, 42–43, 195nn97–98; religious meanings, 41–42, 60; stone markers, 37, 192n71. See also Fuji no hitoana sōshi Hōseidō Kisanji, 193n86 Ichigyō Hana, 131–132, 133, 227–228n88, 235n2 Ichiji fusetsu no maki. See Unspoken Word Ihara Saikaku, 115, 222n9 Imagawa Yoshimoto, 32 image-texts. See ominuki; talismans imperial court, 139 Irokawa Daikichi, 16 Ise merchants, 116, 117–118, 140, 221– 222nn4–6, 222n9, 223n15, 223n22 Ise pilgrimages, 10, 189n48 Ishida Baigan, 115, 125, 128, 157, 227n77 Ishimoda Shō, 176n40 Iwashina Koichirō, 60, 86, 126, 145, 152–153, 209nn103–104 Jikigyō Miroku (Itō Ihei): on Age of Miroku, 93–94, 105–106, 108–109, 112, 126, 127, 139–140; ascetic practices, 109–110, 155; break from past, 128, 154–155; clothing, 143, 152, 153, 234n75; creation theology, 95–97, 129, 213n22; ecological thought, 93, 98–99, 124, 125; economic teachings, 115, 119–120, 124–125, 134, 140, 141–142, 145, 154; followers, 86, 93, 109, 129–130, 152–154, 156; on healing rituals,

Index  267 132–133; influence, 13, 92; Kyoto visit, 139; letters, 143, 231n34; life of, 92, 115, 116, 117, 140, 154–155, 210n1, 222nn7–8, 231n34; lineage, 126, 131–132, 235n2; moral teachings, 12, 20, 92, 112–114, 124, 146, 156–157, 220n105, 225n53; ominuki, 41, 54, 111–112, 111, 129, 199n135, 220n102, 227n84; pilgrimages to Mount Fuji, 219n90; practices, 109–111; on prayer, 17, 20, 107, 108, 112, 119–120, 125–129; prayer rituals critiqued by, 12, 16, 62, 124, 125–128, 131, 134, 158; scholarship on, 13, 14, 16, 17, 20, 128, 145; on social hierarchy, 105–106, 146, 233n54; on social reform, 112; talismans, 130; Tokugawa authorities and, 106, 108–109, 135, 139–140, 141–142, 146, 181n73; on women, 99, 100–102, 103–105; writings, 92–93, 98–99, 100, 108–109, 112, 143, 211nn3–4 Jikigyō Miroku (Itō Ihei), death of: aftermath, 1, 149, 152–154, 156; final moments, 144–145; followers’ interpretations, 146–147, 149; location, 144; logic, 92, 143–149, 154–155; motives, 142, 145–149, 155; narratives, 143–145, 232n45, 232n48; political context, 142; preparation, 143–144; sermons during final fast, 93, 99, 100–101, 104, 127–128, 147–148, 225n53; shrine-cabinet (zushi), 1, 143–144, 145, 151, 152, 153, 154, 235n80; style, 149, 151–152, 154 Josephson [Josephson-Storm], Jason Ānanda, 5 kaji kitō (ritualized prayer): debates on, 119; Jikigyō’s critique, 12, 16, 20, 123–124; meaning of term, 64; practiced by Fuji followers, 12, 13, 128; in Shugendō, 201n9. See also prayer rituals Kakugyō ominuki: as bodily extractions, 81; carried by pilgrims, 74–75; crow images, 54, 55, 69, 112, 203n32; examples, 55, 56; explications (ohiraki), 84, 89; Hitoana, 41; influence, 59, 208n90; meanings, 57,

89, 157; star references, 96, 97; text, 53, 54, 57, 82, 83–85; uses, 52–53, 74; visual design, 53–54, 57 Kakugyō Tōbutsu: ascetic practices, 1, 34, 37, 40–41, 42, 73–74, 81, 89, 157, 199n135, 204n44; death, 151; family, 190n51; followers, 34, 54, 57, 62, 157–158, 206n59; Fuji images produced, 69; healing activities, 70–72, 136, 204n44; life of, 52; lineage, 88–89; practices, 53; revelations to, 21, 53, 59–60, 70, 81; scholarship on, 12, 13; successors, 67, 70–72, 74, 85–86, 122–123, 126, 204n40; talismans, 67, 68, 74, 76–77, 78; teachings, 179n62; Tokugawa authorities and, 135–136. See also Kakugyō ominuki kami, 43, 94, 96, 101, 216n55. See also Amaterasu; Asama; Sengen; shrines Kami no yo. See Age of the Gods Kanda Hideo, 15, 19, 172n6, 183–184n104 Kano Masanao, 181n76 Kanō Motonobu, 45 karma, 113–114, 119, 187n19, 221nn114–115 Katsurajima Nobuhiro, 19, 174n18, 184n105 Katsuyama-ki, 30, 187n27 Kawamura Tanken, 222n9, 223n15 Kichidō Anzan, 146–147, 151, 234n71 Kikuchi Kunihiko, 30 Kitaguchi Sengen Shrine (Kitaguchi Hongū Fuji Sengen Jinja): establishment, 188n30; pilgrimage coordinators, 30, 34; pilgrimages starting from, 32, 49; Śākyamuni’s plaque, 107–108; staff, 127, 188n30, 188n36; talismans, 87. See also Fujisan hachiyō kuson; Hachiyō kuson zu; Yoshida oshi kitō. See prayer rituals kitōsha. See prayer agents kō (lay associations), 2–3, 10, 34. See also Fuji kō Kobayashi Gonzaemon, 72, 205n51 Koizumi Bunrokurō, 93, 143, 146–147, 152, 216n52, 220n108, 222n8, 225n53, 226n67, 234n75

268  Index Kojiki, 36 komori. See bodily confinement Konkōkyō, 10, 19, 174n18, 178n50, 181n76, 184n105 Koyama Issei, 39, 193n85 Koyasu Nobukuni, 19, 20, 184n106 Kozawa Hiroshi, 182n93 Kumano shrines, 46, 65, 67 Kurozumikyō, 10, 157, 181n76 Kyoto, 28, 139 language: auspicious, 82; relationships to images, 90; ritual speech, 77–82, 84, 89, 206–207n71; secret, 84–85 lay associations. See Fuji kō; kō literacy, 89–90 Mahmood, Saba, 21, 184n112 Main Sengen Shrine (Fujisan Hongū Sengen Taisha): establishment, 188n30; fundraising for, 47, 197n117; government authorities and, 32, 186n10; pilgrimage activities, 28, 29, 31, 33; Sanzon kuson zu, 48–49, 57, 197n121, Plate 5; staff, 144, 185n8, 189n45. See also Mount Fuji pilgrimage mandalas Maitreya (Miroku) Buddha, 106, 109, 150 mandalas. See Mount Fuji pilgrimage mandalas; pilgrimage mandalas; shrine mandalas; Womb Realm Mandala Maruyama Masao, 8, 176n38 Matsudai Shōnin, 28, 185n1 McFarland, H. Neill, 6–7, 175n28 mendicants, 38, 52, 62, 64, 120–123, 224n33, 225n42. See also almsgiving; mountain ascetics menstruation, 101, 103–104, 215n45 merchants, 115, 116–118, 131, 140–141, 221–222nn5–8, 222–223nn12–13. See also Ise merchants minshū shūkyō. See people’s religions Miroku. See Maitreya Buddha miroku, meaning of, 106, 220n105 Miroku no miyo. See Age of Miroku Mitchell, W. J. T., 90 Mitsui Takafusa, 118, 230n20

Mitsui Takahira, 118 Miyake Hitoshi, 66–67 Miyazaki Fumiko, 108–109, 128, 217n67, 220n105 Mizuno Nanboku, 226n58 modernization, 6–8, 11, 13, 14, 15–18, 20, 176n40 monks. See Buddhist clergy moon: menstruation and, 101, 103, 215n45; as source of water, 98, 215n45. See also sun and moon Mori Sōbei, 126 Moto no Chichihaha (True Father and Mother): ascetic practices, 97–98; cosmic ecosystem, 125; devotion to, 157; dual gender, 103; ideographs, 199n137; images, 57; origins, 95–96; responsibilities, 106; Sengen and, 94; as source of rice, 96, 98 Mount Fuji pilgrimage mandalas (Fuji sankei mandara): compared to ominuki, 54, 57, 59; dates, 196n105; extant exemplars, 45–51; Kanō, 45, 46, 47–48, 197n120, Plate 3; miei and, ­198–199n128; paper-based, 196n110; prefectural, 45–46, 47, 196n112, Plate 4; Shōeiji, 196n110, 197n117; woodblock prints, 49–51, 50, 51, Plate 5 mountain ascetics (gyōnin), mummies, 149–150, 151, 152, 154 mountain ascetics (yamabushi): bodily confinement, 35–36; competitors, 122, 123; declining number, 189n46; false, 121; Fuji devotionalism and, 28–29, 30, 31, 32–33, 35, 39, 47, 188–189n41; healing and apotropaic services, 61, 64, 66, 122, 180n67, 225n48; lay leaders, 138, 229n11; military roles, 32; Murayama, 34, 39; practices, 33–34, 35–36, 42, 61, 157; prayer rituals, 64, 121–122; regulations, 22, 224nn32–33; scholarly views of, 13; talismans, 65, 67–68, 68, 69, 122; training, 101, 215n50. See also Shugendō mountain deities, 101. See also Fuji deities mountain guides (sendatsu): Fuji devotionalism and, 30, 46, 47, 86–87,

Index  269 103; in Murayama, 28, 32–33, 103, 188n32; secrecy, 84–85; transmission texts, 86, 209n103 mountains: association with death, 149; compared to human body, 98–99, 101–102, 104; pilgrimages to, 2, 34, 54; women’s association with, 101–102. See also caves; Fuji, Mount mummies, 149–151, 152–153, 233n62 Murakami Kōsei, 85–86, 126, 195n97, 201n10, 226n64 Murakami Norio, 121 Murakami Shigeyoshi, 6, 9–11, 13, 14–15, 16, 105, 177n46, 179nn56–57, 181nn73–74 Murayama: Fujisan Kōhōji, 28, 45; mountain ascetics, 34, 39; mountain guides, 28, 32–33, 103, 188n32; pilgrims in, 29, 30, 31, 32; Shugendō complex, 28, 45, 47, 48, 61, 189n45, 196n107; water-purification site, 39, 39 Myōhōji, 150 Myōshin, 151 Naitō Kanji, 7 Nakagawa Seizaburō, 223n22 Nakayama Keiichi, 11–12, 16, 177n46 Nakayama Miki, 217n70 Naramoto Tatsuya, 8 Neo-Confucianism, 15–16, 90, 112–113, 156, 220n108 new age. See Age of Miroku new new religions (shin shinshūkyō), 174n21 new religions (shinshūkyō): Fujikō as prototype, 2–3, 179n58; heterodoxies, 4–6; moral teachings, 113; origins and rise, 2, 156; political significance, 20–21, 22; in postwar era, 6–7; scholarship on, 4, 6–7, 9, 14, 18–20, 156; teachings, 18–19; use of term, 3–4, 6; women’s roles, 105 Nichigyō Nichigan (Kurono Unpei), 70–71, 72, 74, 179n62, 204n40, 204n44 Nishikawa Joken, 115, 223n14 Nishiyama Shigeru, 18 Nitta Tadatsune (Nita-no-Shirō), 37, 38, 39, 41

Nyoraikyō, 19, 157, 172n6, 178n50, 183–184n104, 217n70 Oda Nobunaga, 32 Offner, Clark B., 6 Okada Hiroshi, 132, 180–181n69 Oketsujō no maki. See Realization omamori, 65 ominuki (ritual image-texts), 52–60; association with pilgrimage mandalas, 54; five-line (gogyō), 111–112, 111, 219n100; Fuji images, 52–60, 88, 90; functions, 60, 69, 74–75, 88, 200n140; of Getsugan, 57–59, 58, 72, 219–220n100; healing rituals and, 207n73; iconography, 54, 59, 88, 94, 199n134; innovations, 90–91, 219–220n100; of Jikigyō, 41, 54, 111–112, 111, 129, 199n135, 220n102, 227n84; as talismans, 60, 64, 69, 72; written characters, 76–77, 79, 82, 88, 90, 94–95, 111–112, 137–138, 207n75. See also Kakugyō ominuki Ōmiya, 29, 30, 39, 46, 57, 103. See also Fujinomiya; Main Sengen Shrine Ōmotokyō, 10, 16, 177–178n47, 217n70 Onchi seiyō (Essentials of Well-Considered Government), 141–142, 146 Onmyōdō, 4, 61, 65, 96, 202n20, 225n48 oshi. See pilgrimage coordinators; Yoshida oshi Osoegaki no maki. See Addendum Ōtaka Yasumasa, 46, 185n8, 196n106, 197n120 Ōtani Masayuki, 99, 145 Ōtsuka Hisao, 7–8, 176nn36–37 Ōtsuki, Shimotsuke, 72, 73–74, 205n51, 206n59 otsutae (transmissions), 86, 88, 206n59. See also permission scrolls; transmission texts pagoda texts, 53, 90 people’s religions (minshū shūkyō), 3–4, 6, 7, 9–11, 15, 20, 177–178n47, 179n56. See also Fuji devotionalism; popular religions

270  Index permission scrolls (yurushi no maki), 85–86, 88, 209n97, 213n21 pictorial storytelling (etoki), 44–45, 52, 196n110. See also Mount Fuji pilgrimage mandalas pilgrimage coordinators (oshi), 30, 31, 35, 44, 86–87, 103, 121, 127, 189n48. See also Yoshida oshi pilgrimage mandalas (sankei mandara), 44–45, 54. See also Mount Fuji pilgrimage mandalas pilgrimages: Ise, 10, 189n48; to mountains, 2, 34, 54; popularity, 2, 33, 156, 235n3; purposes, 35 pilgrimages to Mount Fuji: by Buddha, 107–108; costs, 29–30, 33, 186n12, 187n22; entertainment, 47; growth, 30, 38, 40, 41–42, 43, 73; guidebooks, 195n98; in kōshin years, 49, 57, 94, 187n27, 197n120, 198n123; maps, 31, 35, 199n129; pilgrim registers, 30; proxy or vicarious, 35, 39–40; religious meanings, 39–40, 54; repeated, 109, 219n90; rituals, 29, 31–32, 35, 38–39, 47, 102–103, 109, 110, 188n34; routes, 28, 30, 31–32, 31, 33, 34, 35, 43, 49, 189n45; suicides on mountain, 144, 146–147, 151; system, 28–34; visual images, 44–51; by women, 103, 104, 217n67. See also mountain guides; Murayama politics: activism of Fuji practitioners, 135–137, 139–140, 229n4, 230n18; independence and dissent, 20–23; meaning, 21; new religions and, 20–21, 22. See also Tokugawa authorities popular religions: history of, 3–7, 8–11, 12–18, 19–20; social and political positions, 106; use of term, 7, 175n31. See also new religions; people’s religions prayer, direct (jiki negai), 107, 108, 119–120, 129, 134 prayer agents (kitōsha), 121, 126, 133, 224n33. See also gannin prayer rituals (kitō): for benefits (kage negai), 20, 107, 120, 124, 125, 129, 131, 154; Buddhist, 63, 64; disagreements within

Fujikō, 62; fee-based, 20, 62, 119–120, 121–124, 125, 128, 131, 134; Japanese traditions, 63–64, 66; Jikigyō’s critique, 62, 124, 125–128, 131, 134, 158; skeptical views, 128. See also kaji kitō; talismans priests, of Sengen shrines, 32, 33, 44, 61, 185n8, 188n36. See also Buddhist clergy Pure Land, 15, 41, 44, 60, 114, 194n96, 195n99. See also Amida Buddha Pure Land Buddhism, 48, 114, 138 Raz, Gil, 84 Realization (Oketsujō no maki), 93, 211n3 recital texts (tonaebumi), 77, 80 religious history: Christian or Western influences, 183n101; Marxist theory and, 7–8, 10; of popular religions, 3–7, 8–11, 12–18, 19–20; of sect Shinto, 11; vitalism, 18–20. See also new religions religious professionals. See Buddhist clergy; mendicants; mountain ascetics; priests; Yoshida oshi religious regulations: controlling unauthorized activities, 22, 136–138; effects on Fuji practitioners, 136–139; enforcement, 22–23; evasion by unofficial groups and individuals, 4–6, 23, 122, 138; of Fujikō, 2, 131, 133–134, 138, 228n97; of healing activities, 136; of mountain ascetics, 22, 121, 224nn32–33; pilgrimage fees, 186n14; of wandering mendicants, 120–121, 224n33 rice: association with compassion, 124; association with Fuji, 94, 98, 124, 145; birth of, 100; character for, 216n57; consumed by pregnant women, 101; divine associations, 98, 214n30, 214n32; importance, 99; Jikigyō on, 98, 100; as monetary measure, 119–120; prices, 140–141, 142; samurai wages paid in, 140; water and, 129 ritual image-texts. See ominuki ritual speech, 77–82, 84, 89, 206–207n71 rituals: in early Fuji community, 75; fees, 116–117, 127; fujigori (cold-water austerities), 31, 38–39, 73, 74, 80, 103,

Index  271 206n60; self-purification, 102–103, 110; talisman production, 66. See also healing practices; prayer rituals Robson, James, 183n101 Rubinger, Richard, 90 Ruch, Barbara, 193n86 rural areas: agriculture, 98, 99; demand for prayer rituals, 121; Fuji cells, 73–74, 87–88, 127; Fujidō followers, 2; literacy, 89–90; peasants, 8, 16, 99, 137 Śākyamuni Buddha, 107–108, 218nn81–82 salvation, new religions and, 10, 19. See also Age of Miroku Sanders, Seth L., 80 Sangyō Rokuō, 131 Sanjūichinichi no on-maki. See Book of Thirty-One Days sankei mandara. See pilgrimage mandalas Santō Kyōden, 193n86 Sanzon kuson zu, 48–49, 57, 197n121, Plate 5 Schattschneider, Ellen, 97 secrecy, 84–85, 209n103 sect Shinto (kyōha Shintō), 4, 5, 9, 11, 12 Seigan (Mori Ihei), 226n63 Seigyō Tokuzan, 70, 87, 151, 207n72 sendatsu. See mountain guides Sengen: ascetic practices, 97–98; creation myths, 213n16; Dainichi title, 70, 94, 211n5; healing powers, 70; prayers to, 119–120, 129, 134; revelations to Jikigyō and Getsugyō, 125; revelations to Kakugyō, 21, 53, 59–60, 70, 81; as speaker of ritual speech, 80, 81; as supreme authority, 17, 21; women and, 102. See also Asama Sengen shrines: Murayama, 39; priests and staff, 33, 44, 61, 87, 103, 185n8, 188n36. See also Kitaguchi Sengen Shrine; Main Sengen Shrine Shaka’s Split Rock (Shaka no wari-ishi), 108, 143, 144, 151 Shimai Sōshitsu, 117 Shimazono Susumu, 3, 18, 19, 138, 173n10, 177n42, 177n46 Shimizu Ikutarō, 176n40

Shimotsuke, 72, 73–74, 87, 137, 138, 205n55. See also Ōtsuki Shingaku, 138, 156, 181, 225n49 shinshūkyō. See new religions Shinto, 4, 12–13. See also sect Shinto Shiraito Falls, 42, 42, 70 Shiramizu Hiroko, 18 Shōsai Sonkai, 66 shrine mandalas, 44, 45, 48 shrines: donations, 29, 47, 116–117, 197n117, 222n12, 223n15; Nikkō, 231n31; regulations, 22; rituals, 122. See also Sengen shrines Shugendō: ascetic practices, 61, 157; blessings (kaji), 201n9; confinement in caves, 36; founder, 40; Fuji devotionalism and, 11–12, 13, 30, 32–33, 187n24; gender in, 215n50; head temples, 224n32; Murayama complex, 28, 45, 47, 48, 61, 189n45, 196n107; prayer rituals, 66, 122; scholarship on, 12–13, 180nn67– 68; symbology, 96; talismans, 202n24, 202n27, 209–210n107, 213n20; temple revenues, 189n43; use of term, 180n68. See also mountain ascetics Shūkai, 150 Shungi, 150, 234n67 social hierarchy, 105–106, 146, 233n54 social reform, 9, 10, 16, 112, 146. See also Age of Miroku Soga Iga, 136–137 stars, 96, 213nn20–21 suicides: on Mount Fuji, 144, 146–147, 151; religious, 149–151, 234n70; rituals, 148; self-starvation, 149, 150, 151. See also death; Jikigyō Miroku, death of sumptuary laws, 116 sun and moon: bodhisattvas, 211n6; deities associated with, 94, 97, 98, 101, 103, 108, 109, 110; in Fuji images, 46, 48, 54, 74, 94, 112; rituals, 109–110; symbolism in Japan, 94, 104; symbols in ominuki, 213n21; women and, 102, 103 Taihō (Saitō Tazaemon), 67, 70–71, 72, 203n33, 204n40, 204n44

272  Index Takano Toshihiko, 127 Takichi (Nakaganmaru Toyomune), 143, 144–145, 232n48 Tale of the Fuji Cave, The. See Fuji no hitoana sōshi talismanic water, 129, 132, 133. See also healing practices talismans (fusegi slips): antiplague, 79, 79, 85, 87, 207n76; Buddhist, 65, 66; carried by pilgrims, 74–75; compilations, 87, 95, 209n96; Daoist, 65, 66, 68, 76, 84, 90; distribution, 123, 228n97; early history, 65; eating, 83, 202n27; for expelling colds (Kazebarai no fusegi), 77–78, 78, 79–80, 82; generic, 87–88; in Japan, 61, 65, 201nn14–15; of Kakugyō, 67, 68, 74, 76–77, 78; later, 88, 209– 210n107; as lineage documents, 85–86, 88–89; of mountain ascetics, 65, 67–68, 68, 69, 122; omamori, 65, 201n14; ominuki as, 60, 64, 69, 72; practices, 89; production, 66, 87–88; purposes, 62–63, 66–67, 69, 85–87, 89; silkworm, 72; use in healing, 70–72, 77–78, 79–80, 82–83, 87, 202n27, 207n73; use of term, 65; written characters, 65–66, 67, 76–85, 88, 89, 90 Tambiah, Stanley J., 77, 82, 84, 184n111 Tanabe Jūrōemon, 86, 132, 143, 144–145, 152, 227n72, 234n75. See also Book of Thirty-One Days Tanaka Yoshitō, 180n66 Tendai Buddhism, 28, 189n43. See also Shugendō Tenrikyō, 7, 10, 18, 157, 174n18, 217n70 Thailand, Buddhist ritual speech, 77 Thirty-One Days. See Book of Thirty-One Days thrift. See economy Tokugawa authorities: economic policies, 140–142, 231n30; Jikigyō and, 106, 108–109, 135, 139–140, 141–142, 146, 181n73; Kansei reforms, 133–134, 228n94, 228n97; regulation of almsgiving, 121; sumptuary laws, 116. See also religious regulations

Tokugawa Iemitsu, 33 Tokugawa Ieyasu, 32, 135–136, 231n31 Tokugawa Muneharu, 231n30; Onchi seiyō (Essentials of Well-Considered Government), 141–142, 146 Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, 141, 231n26 Tokugawa Yoshimune, 140, 142, 146, 231n30 Tomiyama company, 117, 118, 140, 221–222nn5–8 Tomiyama Seibei, 116 tonaebumi. See recital texts Tōyama Shigeki, 176n40 transmission texts, 86, 88, 209n103, 212n10, 224n28 True Father and Mother. See Moto no Chichihaha Tsukihi (Moon and Sun), 94. See also Moto no Chichihaha Tsushima Michihito, 18 Tyler, Royall, 37, 41, 82, 112, 136, 145, 149, 220n105, 221n116 Unspoken Word (Ichiji fusetsu no maki): afterworld description, 113; on Age of the Gods, 106–107; on Fuji deities, 95–96, 97; Getsugyō as Fuji gannin, 122–123; on nature and universe, 98, 100, 106, 139; on religious practices, 108, 125; on Śākyamuni Buddha, 107–108; writing of, 93, 106, 211n3 Van Straelen, Henry, 6 visual culture: of Fuji devotionalism, 43, 61–62, 198n123, 198–199n128; of Fujikō, 51, 52; pictorial storytelling (etoki), 44–45, 52, 196n110. See also Fuji images; Mount Fuji pilgrimage mandalas; ominuki water: fujigori (cold-water austerities), 31, 38–39, 73, 74, 80, 103, 206n60; importance, 99; Jikigyō on, 98; moon as source of, 98, 215n45; from Mount Fuji, 129–130, 131, 214n33, 228n97; ritual cleansing, 29, 39; talismanic, 129–130, 132, 133

Index  273 wealth, 115, 119. See also economy Weber, Max, 7–8, 14 Womb Realm Mandala, 43, 48, 112, 215n50 women: association with mountains, 101–102; bodies, 101–102, 104; clothing, 102; conventional views of, 103, 104–105; depicted in Fuji pilgrimage mandalas, 47–48; evil, 38; Five Hindrances and Three Obediences, 103, 216–217n64; Fujikō followers, 99, 102–103, 104–105; Jikigyō on, 99, 100–102, 103–105; menstruation, 101, 103–104, 215n45; pilgrimages to Mount Fuji, 103, 104, 217n67; pregnancy and childbirth, 101, 102, 103, 216n59; purity, 99, 102–104; religious roles, 217n71; reproductive roles, 99–101, 103. See also dual-gendered forces world renewal (yonaoshi) thought, 9, 10, 14

yamabushi. See mountain ascetics Yamamoto Shichihei, 177n42 Yamamoto Shino, 43, 195n97 Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu, 141 Yasumaru Yoshio, 14–17, 106, 177n42, 181n80, 182n85, 182nn91–92 Yoshida, pilgrimages starting from, 30, 31–32. See also Kitaguchi Sengen Shrine Yoshida oshi: interactions with Fujikō, 34, 62, 127, 138, 144; lodges, 30, 31, 87, 226n69; as pilgrimage guides, 30, 34, 188n32; ritual manuals, 32, 43, 188n37; talismans, 87, 228n97; Tanabe as, 132. See also talismans Yoshida Shinto, 4 Yudono, Mount, 149, 150 Yudono ascetics, 149–150, 151, 152, 189n43, 234n70 yurushi no maki. See permission scrolls

Janine Anderson Sawada grew up in Rome, Italy, and attended Reed College and Harvard University before completing her PhD in Japanese and Chinese religions at Columbia University. She is professor of religious studies and East Asian studies at Brown University and taught previously at the University of Iowa and Grinnell College. Sawada specializes in the religious and intellectual history of early modern Japan and writes on topics ranging from lay Zen ­Buddhism and the spread of Neo-Confucian ideas to the new religions of the nineteenth century. She is the author of Practical Pursuits: Religion, Politics, and Personal Cultivation in Nineteenth-Century Japan (2004) and Confucian Values and Popular Zen: Sekimon Shingaku in Eighteenth-Century Japan (1993).

Plate 1. Entrance to Hitoana. Hitoana Sengen Shrine, Fujinomiya. Photograph by the author.

Plate 2. Great Bodhisattva Asama in the form of a multiheaded snake. Color illustration in Fuji no hitoana. Early seventeenth century. Spencer Collection, New York Public Library.

Plate 3. Fuji sankei mandara. Color on silk. 186.6 by 118.2 cm. Sixteenth century. Courtesy of Fujisan Hongū Sengen Taisha, Fujinomiya.

Plate 4. Fuji sankei mandara. Color on silk. 91.5 by 67.3 cm. Sixteenth century. Courtesy of Fujisan Hongū Sengen Taisha, Fujinomiya.

Plate 5. Sanzon kuson zu. Woodblock print on paper. 38 by 27.5 cm. Edo period. Courtesy of Fujisan Myūjiamu, Fujiyoshida.