Mr. Altig’s Overview of the Wonderful Dharma of the Lotus Sutra

In our modern world, we are often pressured to present a flawless version of ourselves. We curate our lives, polish our resumes, and strive for an ideal of personal perfection. It is therefore deeply puzzling to encounter a historical example that turns this entire value system on its head.

Consider a letter written in 13th-century Japan by the Buddhist master Nichiren. The occasion was the Ullambana festival, a ceremony for honoring one’s deceased ancestors. Writing to an elderly woman, Nichiren offers an assessment of her priest grandson, Lord Jibu, in what sound like devastating terms, stating that his wisdom is comparable to a cow’s and his dignity is no better than a monkey’s. Yet, in the very same passage, he pivots to praise Jibu as a “fine jewel,” a sacred figure capable of saving his entire lineage.

This presents a profound riddle: How can a person so thoroughly flawed be considered a hero with the power to save his family? The answer, preserved in the turbulent religious landscape of Kamakura Japan, was part of a radical redefinition of filial piety itself. It reveals a powerful and counter-intuitive lesson about where our true value lies—a lesson that challenges our most basic assumptions about personal merit and the nature of faith.

First, Demolish the Pedestal.

Nichiren’s harsh words were not a personal attack but a calculated rhetorical strategy, characteristic of the fierce polemics he often used to shock his audience into recognizing the failures of established religious systems. He begins his assessment of Lord Jibu by systematically tearing down every conventional measure of a good priest. He writes that Jibu “neither observes even one of the 250 precepts,” possesses wisdom “like a horse or a cow,” and has dignity “like a monkey.”

For an audience in 13th-century Japan, this was a declaration of total failure in the three pillars of clerical life: monastic discipline, profound wisdom, and personal character. But this was precisely Nichiren’s point. By portraying Jibu as a complete failure by every established metric, he was intentionally clearing the ground to build a radical new argument. This act of theological demolition wasn’t to prove that Jibu was a bad priest; it was to argue that the old standards for judging a priest were no longer relevant. It creates a vacuum, forcing the reader to ask: if Jibu has no personal merit, no self-generated spiritual power, then where does his value come from?

It’s Not About Your Strength, But What You Cling To.

After dismantling every aspect of Jibu’s personal worth, Nichiren reveals the true source of his value: his faith. He writes, “Nevertheless, what he reveres is Śākyamuni Buddha and what he believes in is the Lotus Sutra. This like a snake holding a gem or a dragon gratefully holding the relics of the Buddha.”

The metaphor is the key. In Buddhist mythology, the Nāga (a powerful serpent or dragon) is not a malevolent creature but a revered “protector of the Dharma,” a sacred guardian of the teachings. Its ultimate worth comes not from its own nature but from the priceless treasure it protects. By comparing Jibu to a Nāga, Nichiren elevates him from a failed priest to a sacred guardian. Jibu, in all his imperfection, is that vessel. His personal flaws are irrelevant because the object of his faith—the Lotus Sutra—is a supreme and untarnishable jewel.

Nichiren reinforces this principle with another elegant analogy, explaining that it is not our own power that allows us to achieve the impossible:

A wisteria vine, by twining around a pine, may climb a thousand fathoms into the air; and a crane, because it has its wings to rely upon, can travel ten thousand ri. It is not their own strength that allows them to do these things.

Jibu, the “humble wisteria vine” with no strength of his own, could “ascend the mountain of perfect enlightenment” simply by clinging to the “mighty pine” of the teaching he revered.

A New Playbook for a Difficult Age.

Nichiren’s logic was not an arbitrary change of rules; it was a compassionate response to the spiritual challenges of his time. He, like many in 13th-century Japan, believed they were living in a period known as the “Latter Day of the Law,” or Mappō—an age of profound spiritual decline where traditional paths to enlightenment had lost their power. To prove this, he retold a foundational Buddhist story.

He begins with the Venerable Maudgalyayana, the Buddha’s disciple “foremost in transcendental powers.” His spiritual credentials were unimpeachable; his observance of the 250 precepts was “as firm as a rock.” Yet when Maudgalyayana used his heavenly eye, he discovered his mother suffering in the realm of hungry spirits. Overcome with pity, he used his great powers to offer her food, but her karma was so heavy that the rice burst into flames in her mouth. His immense personal merit and perfect discipline were utterly useless.

This tragic failure provided Nichiren with the ultimate proof that the old system had become ineffective. If even one of the Buddha’s greatest disciples, a man of immense power and perfect conduct, could not save his own mother through his own strength, then the age of Mappō was real. The old playbook, based on accumulating personal merit, was no longer sufficient. A new one was desperately needed.

Substituting Faith for Wisdom.

Nichiren’s solution for the age of Mappō was a doctrine known as ishin-daie, or “substituting faith for wisdom.” In this view, pure, unadulterated faith in the Lotus Sutra becomes the single and sufficient cause for attaining enlightenment. He even noted that Śāriputra, the Buddha’s “foremost in wisdom,” could only grasp the Lotus Sutra’s truth through faith. If the wisest of the wise needed faith, it was the perfect path for ordinary people.

This new playbook is what ultimately allowed Maudgalyayana to succeed. Nichiren explained that it was only after the great disciple embraced the Lotus Sutra and attained Buddhahood himself through its power that he was finally able to save not only his mother, but his father as well. Faith in the Lotus Sutra succeeded where personal power and precepts had failed.

This creates a stunning reversal for Lord Jibu. His flaws—his lack of wisdom and his inability to follow the rules—suddenly become his primary qualifications. Because he has no profound intellect to rely on, he is protected from intellectual arrogance. Because he cannot keep the precepts, he is immune to the spiritual pride of the self-righteous. He is an empty vessel, perfectly receptive to the power of the teaching he reveres, making him the ideal practitioner for the Latter Day of the Law.

A Final Thought on Your Own “Fine Jewel”

The story of Lord Jibu is more than a historical curiosity; it is a timeless lesson on the nature of worth. It suggests that our ultimate value is not measured by our personal perfection or accomplishments. Rather, it is measured by the power and value of the principles we choose to dedicate our lives to. The vessel may be flawed—as unwise as a cow, as undignified as a monkey—but the jewel it contains can be supreme.

It leaves us with a question to ponder. In a world that demands constant self-improvement, what if the most powerful thing we can hold is not our own strength, but a simple, unshakable faith in something greater than ourselves?