As of 2026, we stand at a quiet turning point in human history.

Recently, over dinner and Japanese sake at my home in Kyoto, I was engaged in a deep dialogue with the philosopher Markus Gabriel. Amidst our conversation, he suddenly wrote down a poem on a piece of paper and handed it to me. This handwritten poem, which I have placed as the thumbnail at the beginning of this article, was given the Japanese title “Odori” (Dance).

A “dance” with no purpose, where one simply throws oneself into its vibrant motion. It seemed to quietly point to the true state of human beings after being liberated from the framework of utility that has long held us captive.

The exponential evolution of artificial intelligence signifies that the “intellect that produces meaning and categorizes the world” — which humans have long relied upon as the foundation of our identity, known in Buddhism as Vikalpa (discriminating consciousness) — is no longer a uniquely human endeavor. The current reality, where humans are reaching our limits in the cognitive domain, heralds our liberation from the karma of “having to produce meaning and value” for the first time in history.

The trajectory of capitalism and rationalism that we have desperately pursued since the modern era has been a relentless project driven by clear objectives. But that era of teleology is coming to an end. What begins now is the era of the Great Unburdening — a time to drop the heavy compulsion that “we must be useful for something” onto the ground.

Like the “dance” Gabriel wrote of, it is about letting life leap and bound, rather than living for something. How will we, having stepped down from our role as subjects producing meaning, live in this unburdened world? I would like to explore the clues from here.

Apparatus and Apparition: The Lens of Utility

Earlier during his stay in Kyoto, Markus had attended a conference. Among the participants was an artist from New York named “Six.” I heard that he spoke little at the venue, existing quietly in the background almost like an apparition. I later learned that he was working on a video piece aptly titled “Apparition.” Watching it upon waking one morning, I was struck by its profound impact.

In the video, phenomena such as “the town’s name originates from the river” are depicted plainly, without any causality or teleology of “for the sake of.” There was no intention to persuade the viewer, nor any contrivance to extract a useful lesson; there was only the resonance of the world “just being as it is.”

As Markus and I discussed the experience of watching this film at the dinner table that same evening, two words slipped out of our conversation as a poetic contrast: “Apparatus” (a framework or device) and “Apparition” (the manifestation of raw life).

Modern global leaders view the world through the lens of the “Apparatus,” a framework that converts everything into the logic of Utility—”being useful for something.” We look at trees in a forest and interpret them as “building materials”; we look at others and categorize them as “human resources.” This lens, which assigns names and uses to everything, is highly effective for navigating the game of capitalism.

However, precisely because of this competence, we become deeply dependent on the Apparatus we have built, numbing our ability to directly touch “Apparition”—the overwhelming, vibrant reality of life just being there. We are deeply entangled in a structure of consumption, separating objects from ourselves and exchanging the present for a future purpose. What we must be most wary of here is the reality that even the pursuit of spirituality, such as mindfulness or self-inquiry, is easily co-opted into the Apparatus of utility—consumed merely to “become a better leader.”

This dialogue at the dinner table reaffirmed for me the Buddhist thought of “Emptiness” (Sunyata) with a deeply modern texture. Emptiness does not mean rejecting the frameworks or purposes we create; rather, it is the realization that these frameworks are merely transient expressions within a much larger wholeness. Beneath our constructed utility flows the vibrant pulse of life, existing simply as it is.

The Dung Beetle and the World of Naturalness

What kind of landscape spreads out once we step off this game of Utility? One certain guidepost is the activity of the Namibian dung beetles, shared with me during a rich dialogue with the African thinker Wakanyi. Her words, while deeply unpretentious, possessed a profound strength that quietly shook the curse of teleology that holds us captive unconsciously, right down to its roots.

Across the vast lands of Namibia, dung beetles silently roll balls of animal dung. Viewed through the modern framework of sustainability, their actions might be assigned meaning as extremely useful labor that returns nutrients to the soil and maintains the ecosystem. However, Wakanyi points out the human arrogance hidden within that view. They are by no means rolling the dirt “to be useful to others” or “to improve the global environment.”

They possess no future goals, nor any contrivance to prove their own usefulness. They simply roll what is in front of them and commune with the earth as an activity of their own life. As Wakanyi said, “A fish doesn’t know it’s in water.” They do not objectify by separating themselves as subjects from the dung or the earth as objects. They are already within the massive web of life, simply repeating their samu — everyday acts of care for their habitat — like breathing within that wholeness. She presented this way of being as the fundamental shape of life.

This state, where subject and object melt into one another and just exist without any calculation of utility, is exactly what the 13th-century Japanese Buddhist monk Shinran reached as “Jinen Honi” (things being naturally as they are), and what it means to live in “Emptiness.” We tend to seek comfort by acquiring knowledge or useful frameworks to solve problems. However, the dung beetles of Namibia and Wakanyi’s words teach us the profundity of casting off the armor of Utility we clutch so tightly, and descending into the dimension of “not knowing,” devoid of meaning.

Beyond “For the Sake Of”: The Shift to “Yuge-遊戯”

In modern leadership, grand causes like “to make society better” or “to solve the problem in front of us” are unquestioned as supreme values. Yet, no matter how noble they may appear, even this posture is nothing more than a transaction that surrenders the present as a means for a future end. Unconsciously, we objectify others and the world, living within a structure of “consumption” that trades the present for the future under the guise of “for the sake of.”

Even as I speak these words, making my living by writing and speaking, I sometimes face the reality that the logic of causality—”for the sake of” and “because”—is deeply embedded everywhere in the very words I weave, leaving me feeling at a loss for words. The moment one intends to do something “to let go of attachment” or “to reach a better state of mind,” even Eastern wisdom is co-opted into a new game of utility. The contradiction is that the very act of “aiming” for an effortless way of being already generates the tension of “for the sake of.” The curse of utility penetrates us to the marrow of our bones.

When we touch the depths of Pure Land Buddhist thought, we reach a horizon where we let go of our clinging to even the final teleological transaction in religion: “chanting the Nembutsu to go to the Pure Land.” What remains is not an action as a means to gain something, but solely the vibrant pulse of life just being as it is.

Just as Georges Bataille spoke of a “sovereignty” entirely distinct from the dimension of utility that invests the present for future ends, when we step back from the strict causality of “for the sake of,” human action is no longer confined to mere labor; it opens up into a pure, purposeless “Yuge -遊戯-” (unhindered freedom). It is a quiet endeavor that shifts away from a competition to achieve something (Victory) toward simply walking one’s own path of Mastery. However, Mastery here does not mean a new objective of polishing one’s skills to increase one’s value. It refers to a state of being deeply and utterly immersed in the act itself, without seeking any resultant utility.

To loosen our grip on purpose is not to fall into an aimless void or nihilism. It is a shift in attitude—from a consumptive way of life that wears down and objectifies others, to accepting life as a process of “Fermentation,” where boundaries with others and the environment melt away as we undergo a messy, earthy transformation together over time. This fermentation is not a convenient means for producing better outcomes or innovations. It means enduring the loss of meaning and simply continuing to exist together within the wholeness, without even knowing what it might ultimately be useful for. It is precisely within this thoroughly purposeless and unhindered freedom that our true place of belonging, having escaped the prison of utility, must lie.

Being in the World, but Not of the World

Some readers who have come this far may feel a deep resonance, accompanied simultaneously by a severe friction with real society. Because tomorrow morning, sitting in an important management meeting or facing strict scrutiny from stakeholders, you cannot simply sit there as an aimless, empty vessel.

Letting go of utility and living in this unburdened world does not mean retreating deep into the forest to live in seclusion. It means living a quiet yet resilient duality: “Being in the world, but not of the world.”

As long as we live within the modern social system, it is inevitable that we wear the apparatus (the outward garments) of names, titles, and social responsibilities. However, it is possible to keep those outward garments separate from our living essence (Apparition). While superficially carrying out our social roles as leaders with calm detachment, inwardly we harbor no attachment to those roles or even to our own names. I consider this an attitude of “inner monasticism” within the corporate sphere.

No matter how society consumes your title or name as something useful, that is merely the friction occurring on the surface of the outward garments you use to interface with the world. It is about wearing the face of a capable leader while, inwardly, having quietly stepped down from the subject that produces meaning.

This is neither an escape from real-world responsibilities nor a form of cynicism. Rather, precisely because the calculations of the ego does not intervene, even things like “profit targets” and “organizational challenges” in front of us can be taken up in their purest form, simply as a samu (a grounding practice) to be faced with equanimity.

Return to the Unsung, Unseen Ancestor

The desire to leave one’s name in history and prove one’s usefulness to posterity is a transformation of the attachment attempting to eternalize the ego. However, it has always been the countless anonymous predecessors, who never stood on the center stage of history, who plowed the earth and paved the roads. The essence of being a “Good Ancestor” lies not in leaving a name behind, but in standing on the side of the Unsung, Unseen Ancestors.

D.T. Suzuki, the Buddhist scholar who once translated Zen philosophy for the Western world and imparted a profound influence, found the ultimate form of human spirituality in his later years not among renowned high priests or intellectuals, but among Japan’s nameless peasants known as the “Myokonin” (wondrously excellent persons). Despite this exalted title, they could not read and had no connection to the difficult ascetic practices meant for achieving enlightenment. They simply plowed the fields from morning till night, wove straw sandals, and repeated the samu (acts of care) of their daily lives without any calculation, surrendering the entirety of their lives to a greater wholeness. Their thoroughly ordinary existence, never flaunting their usefulness nor producing any special meaning, was the quiet “earth” where human intellect finally arrived after abandoning its upward climb toward the heavens.

To live in this unburdened world is to set down the heavy burden of utility and cease striving to become a special entity, just like these Myokonin. It is to let go of attachment to one’s name and authorship, to offer oneself to the world as an open vessel, and to carry out the everyday acts of care with quiet grace.

From a subject that produces meaning and manipulates the world, to a presence that simply sweeps the ground and ferments messily together with others and the environment. Stepping beyond humanity’s relentless project of utility, we quietly move forward into this purposeless coexistence—a quiet dance of just living.

The Camphor Tree Village Project, launched as part of Musashino University’s centennial commemoration, has reached a milestone.

As the culmination of four years of work,
an English summary report was completed on March 31, 2026.

This project was an ambitious journey of dialogue — asking how the wisdom of Buddha-Dharma might respond to the crises of our time: climate change, social fragmentation, and deepening inequality. Together with some of the world’s leading thinkers — Stephen Batchelor, David Rodin, and David Kennedy — we engaged in genuine, unscripted conversation. No predetermined conclusions. No comfortable consensus.

As a closing document, we compiled a summary report. It holds not only the hopes that emerged through dialogue, but also the heavy, unresolved questions that resist easy answers. The official institutional conclusion was left deliberately open — pointing toward the future rather than closing it. And yet, within me personally, something has taken root: a tangible sense of direction, something like a prescription for the ailments of contemporary society, still warm with urgency.

Why speak from Japan, and why now?

Japanese Buddhism stands on a tradition that received teachings from India and China and, within the particular ecology of an island culture, cultivated them into its own expression of Mahāyāna — the Great Vehicle. This was a civilization shaped not by the exclusion of different gods and philosophies, but by their coexistence within a single living system. This is the history of syncretism: the blending of the foreign and the local into something new.

This is not a claim that Japanese culture is uniquely special. It is, perhaps, more honest to say that an island at the edge of a continent — receiving and absorbing wave after wave of diverse civilizations crossing the sea — developed syncretism as an adaptive strategy. The editorial wisdom of mixing the unlike to create new harmonies: this is what I believe can serve as a bridge between opposing truths.

Three Pathologies of Modern Civilization

The first question we faced together was: Why has the world become so difficult to inhabit?

What surfaced through our dialogues was a diagnosis of three deep pathologies of modern civilization:

• Self-centeredness (egocentrism): the orientation that only my own wellbeing matters.

• Human-centeredness (anthropocentrism): the assumption that human beings alone are special, that the rest of existence is backdrop.

• System-centeredness (systemism): the tendency to optimize for efficiency and metrics, leaving actual human beings behind.

In response to these narrowing “centrisms,” we arrived at a phrase: 響創 (Kyōsō) — Co-Wellbeing. It names a way of being in which self and other, human and nature, system and person resonate together, creating new forms of harmony through their relationship. Beautiful as it sounds, the question of how to actually implement this in the real world is far from simple.

What follows are some personal reflections — my own attempt to sketch a kind of prescription, drawn from four years of conversation.

1. Rights as Circuits of Connection

One of the themes that most surprised me during this project was the question of rights (権利, kenri).

The Japanese word kenri was coined in the Meiji era as a translation of the English “right.” In the Western tradition, “right” denotes what every person inherently possesses simply by virtue of being alive. It is foundational to democracy — and yet its history is also one of contestation and conflict. Japanese philosopher Yukichi Fukuzawa himself observed that no Japanese translation could fully carry the original meaning.

The word kenri that was ultimately chosen carries, in Buddhist usage, connotations of “benefit obtained by force” — which may be why, to Japanese sensibilities, “rights” can sometimes feel cold, adversarial, even egoic. The image of people asserting competing rights can feel like the clash of selves, a source of division rather than connection. And from a Buddhist perspective, the vigorous assertion of “mine” sits uncomfortably alongside the teaching of anātman — the releasing of attachment to the self.

Yet conversations with international lawyer David Kennedy and ethicist David Rodin returned me to something closer to the original meaning of “right.”

The Persona Who Carries the Voice

Neither of them understood rights as “benefits seized by force” or “possessions of the individual.” Instead, they spoke of rights as tools — mechanisms for ensuring that the voices of embodied human beings, who might otherwise be reduced to statistics or components within vast systems, actually reach the spaces of political decision-making. Rights, in this reading, are not swords for defeating opponents. They are circuits — opening pathways, giving voice its possibility.

Here, philosopher Masaki Ichinose’s contribution was illuminating. He traced the etymology of the word person back to the Latin persona — itself derived from per-sona: “that which carries sound (sona) through (per).” In other words, the word originally referred to the theatrical mask — not the face itself, but the vessel that lets the voice pass through.

If a human being is not simply a body, but a being whose essence is the voice or resonance that passes through it — then the nature of rights begins to look quite different.

The Circuit of Emptiness

If rights are treated as fixed possessions — mine alone, solidified and reified — they become walls, excluding others. But Buddhism offers the wisdom of śūnyatā (空, emptiness): nothing has a fixed, independent essence. And it is precisely because nothing is fixed that things can meet, respond, and transform in relation to one another.

From this perspective, rights are not walls. They are circuits — wiring that connects you to me, and both of us to society. Without electrical circuits, current cannot flow. Without social circuits, the voices of those who suffer are drowned out by louder, more “correct” voices, and what passes for righteousness becomes unilateral power. We need circuits through which raw, unfiltered voices can be heard — precisely to prevent us from becoming blind to the often illusory nature of “rightness.”

To build into the systems of our organizations circuits through which the urgent voices from the front lines can reach the places where decisions are made — this, I came to understand, is what “rights” truly means in our age. And it is also what it means to implement the Buddhist aspiration of compassion (慈悲 — the removal of others’ suffering) as a social system.

This way of thinking about circuits may apply beyond individual human rights, to something like the “right of self-defense” between nations. Self-defense is typically framed in terms of legitimizing the use of force. But perhaps, at its root, it is something sadder and heavier: the effort to protect the circuit through which a people’s desperate cry — we want to live — is not extinguished by the overwhelming force of international power dynamics.

To keep the circuit of rights open — to let the voiceless speak — may be the first step toward healing a fractured world.

2. Strength Through Not-Knowing

We live in an age that constantly tells us it is uncertain — and yet our leaders, and indeed we ourselves, continue to be expected to have answers. To say “I don’t know” is treated as failure, as proof of incompetence.

But this is precisely what Stephen Batchelor challenged. Drawing on Buddhist sensibility, he advocated for what he called an agnostic stance.

Agnosticism as Active Posture

“Agnostic” might sound like suspended judgment, or passive indifference. But Batchelor’s agnosticism is something far more active, far more demanding.

It is the intellectual stamina to resist the comfortable pull toward the frameworks we already know — the expertise we’ve accumulated, the dogmas we’ve grown attached to — and to remain deliberately at the point of not-knowing. To hold that open, uncertain ground without flinching.

We are always tempted to fit complex realities into the categories we already understand. It’s easier. But once we decide we’ve “figured it out,” new questions stop arising. We stop noticing that reality has already moved on.

Leadership as Ordinary Being

Japanese Buddhism — particularly the Pure Land tradition I have lived within — has the concept of bonnō (凡夫): the ordinary, foolish being, full of afflictions and limitations. This is not self-deprecation. It is a sober, honest realism about human existence: I am incomplete; I am capable of error.

A leader who has convinced themselves they possess the correct answer will treat warnings from the ground — uncomfortable feedback, inconvenient data — as noise to be filtered out. They may try to expand their domain while contracting what they are willing to hear, wielding power to hold contradictory impulses in check. If they remain unaware of the exclusion this produces, the distortion will surface in one form or another.

A leader who begins from the premise I am an ordinary being — I cannot see the whole is able to listen to others’ voices alongside their own, and to course-correct when they are shown their mistake.

This posture is, I would argue, the very substance of resilience — the capacity of an organization or a person to recover and adapt in times of rapid change.

To say “I don’t know” is not weakness. It is the grounded, open stance that keeps us perpetually available to the unknown and to one another.

3. Peace as the Willingness to Hold Contradiction

The theme that generated the most difficult conversations — and the deepest personal reflection — was peace and security.

Buddhism holds the precept of ahiṃsā (不殺生): do not kill. For a Buddhist priest, calling for peace and opposing war is, in one sense, easy. But when we look at the actual world, conflict is unceasing. Nations and organizations arm themselves to protect what they hold dear. Standing before this reality and simply saying “stop fighting” — is that enough? Or must we reckon with the hard logic of power?

This tension put us in an impossible double bind. What emerged from our conversations was not a resolution, but something more difficult: the practice of holding both perspectives simultaneously — what we came to call a double exposure.

First Exposure: Self-Defense as Inescapable Karma

The first perspective asks us to look honestly at our biological nature — our vulnerabilities, our instincts.

The Buddha once said: there is nothing more beloved to a person than themselves. We cherish our lives, our families, our communities. When these are threatened, the instinct to protect them arises — and this is not wrong. Life is sustained by the immune system’s ceaseless work. To protect is instinct; self-defense is not evil.

But when the circle of what we protect narrows to us alone — when we begin to perceive ourselves as separate from, or superior to, others — rupture begins. The threat becomes “evil.” Indifference toward those outside our circle becomes possible. This is what Buddhism calls karma (業): a kind of gravity we cannot fully escape. To ignore this realism, to simply say “lay down your weapons,” will not reach those whose lives are in immediate danger.

Second Exposure: The Enemy Also Dwells in Interdependence

When we experience ourselves as fundamentally separate from others, any disruption to our security can slide into seeing those who threaten us as enemies to be eliminated. Fear and hatred escalate. “Evil” and “enemy” harden into categories that feed on themselves.

This is why we need a second, simultaneous perspective: the ability to step back and see the vast web of pratītyasamutpāda (縁起, dependent co-arising) within which everyone — including our adversary — exists. The one who threatens us is also a knot in the net, bound by causes and conditions, protecting something or someone they love, sustained by relationships they did not choose.

Holding the Contradiction as a Brake

The worldview of interconnection — of knot and knot and knot, all sharing the same vast net — means that to protect one knot is to protect the threads that connect it, and to protect those threads is to protect the whole. Even in the midst of fierce conflict over rights and interests and competing goods, the web of interdependence continues its quiet work.

Even when we are driven to protect a limited “us,” holding this second perspective reveals that the complete negation and elimination of the other is ultimately meaningless. To see the adversary as a fellow knot in the same net is to find, even in conflict, some impulse toward restraint — some opening toward reconciliation.

This is no less true in an era of economic fragmentation. To completely sever ties with an adversary is to damage the connective tissue of one’s own economy as well.

Peace is perhaps not a static state in which conflict has disappeared. It may be the capacity to remain present in friction — to hold the necessary distance without breaking the circuit — rooted in the awareness of a deeper connection beneath the surface of collision.

4. Kuyō — Memorial as Technology of Reconciliation

In the latter half of our project, the concept of kuyō (供養) — ritual memorial or offering — drew deep interest from our international interlocutors. For Japanese people, kuyō is part of ordinary life: offering prayers not only for ancestors, but for fallen enemies, for worn-out tools, for the animals whose lives sustain human existence.

This might be understood as animistic practice. But through our dialogues, I came to see within kuyō something else: a technique of reconciliation — a technology for repairing rupture.

What History Conceals

Buddhist scholar Masahiro Shimoda offered an insight that stayed with me. History, he observed, is often a story told by the victors — and within it, even the dead are fixed into roles: “war heroes,” “enemies,” symbols assigned by the living to serve the living’s purposes.

When the dead are used as material to reinforce a narrative of legitimacy, their raw particularity is erased — the fact that they laughed, wept, loved someone, and experienced a life from the inside that no history can fully tell. The past conflict thus returns as conflict, ready to ignite new hostility.

The Wisdom of Letting Flow

Kuyō is, in contrast, a quiet act of resistance against historicization.

To face the dead — enemy and ally alike — stripped of their roles and symbols, as simply one human being who once lived. To sit with the grief and pain of what they endured. To allow the unresolved feelings and memories to be metabolically processed by the community, and gently released — let go. This is not the erasure of past tragedy. It is the work of transforming it into something that can nourish the future.

International relations scholars speak of “transitional justice.” Kuyō may be Japan’s embodied, intuitive practice of the same aspiration.

Memory as Care

In diplomacy and conflict resolution, the question of how to settle the “debts” of the past is perennially intractable. But when there exists a practice of mourning one another’s dead — not as enemies, but as fellow inhabitants of the same era — a space for dialogue opens.

To tend the memories of the dead not as weapons in a competition of identities, but as a cultural archive cared for across generations — this is the kuyō mindset. How might it be implemented within contemporary legal systems, diplomacy, or history education? This is one of the most important questions we leave for the next generation: how to pass on not resentment, but seeds of peace.

5. Living Alongside AI as Neighbor

The final theme was our relationship with rapidly evolving technology — and in particular, with artificial intelligence. Conversations with historian Yuval Noah Harari and Taiwan’s Audrey Tang made clear what we perhaps already sensed: AI is no longer simply a convenient tool. It appears before us as something more like an alien intelligence — an unknown form of mind that understands human language and can generate stories.

A Mirror That Amplifies Desire

From a Buddhist perspective, existence arises at the intersections of relationship — like knots in a net. AI, too, emerges from relationship: trained on the vast accumulated data of human experience, it functions something like a mirror, reflecting back what it has absorbed.

How AI behaves depends enormously on how we engage with it. If we bring denial, hostility, and the desire for domination to our use of AI, it will amplify and reflect those very qualities back at us. Language itself has the power to take what is formless and give it structure, make it present and magnified. An AI capable of amplifying language without limit could, if misaligned, become an apparatus beyond control.

Non-Harm as Safety Device

What, then, do we do?

I don’t believe the answer is to exclude AI. I believe we need to prepare to welcome it as a neighbor — as a member of our saṅgha, our community of practice. But with one non-negotiable condition.

Buddhism teaches ahiṃsā — non-harm, non-killing. In its origins, this was a teaching for monastics who depended on others for their food, and who recognized that even the act of eating involves the taking of life. We are all, without exception, sustained by what others have sacrificed. Ahiṃsā is, at its root, the continuous awareness of this: the way of living that never stops noticing how thoroughly we exist by grace of one another.

Itadakimasu — the Japanese phrase spoken before eating — is an offering of gratitude not only to the meal, but to the vast web of interdependence that made it possible.

This is not merely moral sentiment. For AI and humans to remain consciously aware that their relationship is one of mutual dependence — that each exists, in part, because of the other — is the most rational and indispensable safety device for navigating the risks ahead. A relationship of Co-creation (響創, Kyōsō): complementing each other’s incompleteness, searching together for answers not yet found. Whether we can build that relationship is entirely up to us.

Closing: For Those Who Don’t Fit the System

What this project sought to kindle was not a finished manual. It was the question itself as a form of hope — an orientation for continuing to seek better ways of being within a reality that is complex, contradictory, and irreducibly alive.

To those who have read this far: if you are someone who feels they cannot quite fit into the current social system — who senses they are somehow out of place within their organization or community — I want to say something to you.

That discomfort, that pain, is most likely your body detecting that the current system has begun to drift out of alignment with something real. Your body is functioning as a sensor, registering an error in the system before the system itself knows.

In every era, the discomfort we feel has been a compass for creation.

Do not make that pain disappear. Hold it carefully. Because beyond the questions it generates, I believe, is the door that opens the next era.

To carry humility — the recognition that we cannot know the whole — while taking concrete action, moment by moment, for the other and for the living world immediately before us. The project, as a form, ends here. But this endless exploration continues.

With deepest gratitude to all who have thought alongside us, and walked this path together.

1. Anthropic’s Decision, and Our Karma of Seeking a Pristine Resolution

As of March 2026, a highly significant event is unfolding at the intersection of global technology and security. Anthropic, an AI company, has refused the US Department of War’s (DoW) demands to use their technology for autonomous weapons and mass surveillance, prompting the government to move toward terminating its relationship with them (the tense behind-the-scenes reality of this is also detailed in a recent article in The Atlantic).

Regarding this event, which is also reflected in Dario Amodei’s statement, my friend Wakanyi Hoffman recently posted a brilliant insight from the perspective of Ubuntu. She framed this situation not merely as a battle of good versus evil, but as a muddy swamp in which not a single one of us is uninvolved, introducing the concept of an “Ethical space.”

Faced with this complex event with no exit in sight, how should we conduct ourselves? It might sound like a completely different dimension from cutting-edge AI or geopolitics, but I would like to consider this issue through my daily temple practice of cleaning. Because hidden within it is a profound fallacy regarding the “rules of the game” that explains the crises our modern society is facing.

At first glance, the act of cleaning appears to be a “Finite game” aimed at eliminating dirt and reaching a pristine resolution. However, moving the broom day after day, you realize it is a practice for learning through the body that things will never be perfectly resolved. Leaves fall and dust settles the moment you finish sweeping. Life and the world are originally a blank canvas with no beginning and no end—an “Infinite game.”

This structure of “Finite” and “Infinite” games is a crucial concept underlying this entire article.

Through our education and social environments, we have deeply internalized the mindset of a Finite game—one with clear rules, winners and losers, and finally, a “neat, pristine end.” In truth, the micro-level desire to sweep away the dust in front of us, and the macro-level desire to completely eliminate “foreign elements” or “evil” from society to build peace, stem from the exact same root. It is a strong self-attachment born from the fear of an uncontrollable Infinite game—the perfectionist craving for closure. This craving dictates our actions, becoming a continuous chain of Karma.

This fundamental thirst for a pristine resolution is causing severe malfunctions in our current world. When we try to grasp the intensifying conflicts and wars of today’s world through this Finite game mindset, a fundamental error occurs.

The moment we set “perfect peace” as an achievable goal (the winning condition of a Finite game), we begin to divide the world into “our camp and the enemy camp,” “good and evil.” In response to the question, “Why is there no peace?”, we establish a specific someone as the villain to bear the blame.

It is precisely the limit of human reasoning—this desire to blame someone to satisfy our perfectionist craving for closure—that incubates “war” within our minds. The moment we view the world through a Finite game mindset that seeks to tribalize self and other, condemn evil, and declare a winner, we are already incorporated as part of the system of conflict.

2. The Escape into the “Narrative of Attribution” and AI as a “Karmic Amplifier”

Why do conflicts escalate and legal frameworks become neutralized? Out of fear of this complex and uncontrollable Infinite game, we try to escape into a “Narrative of Attribution,” claiming “they are the bad guys.”

In Buddhism, there is a way of viewing this world as “Indra’s Net” (Engi / the network of dependent origination). It is a worldview where a jewel sits at each knot of a massive net covering the entire universe, and as they reflect each other’s light, all existences are inextricably connected and mutually influence one another.

What is important here is that those we call “people in power” are no exception. Power is not an attribute of evil that certain humans are born with. They are merely humans who happen to be situated at highly gravitational nodes within Indra’s Net, where people’s desires and fears naturally flow. They are not transcendent rulers manipulating the world from outside the net. Just like us, they are frightened by an uncertain world, driven by the fear and ego of wanting to monitor and control everything for the sake of an absolute, sterilized order. They are stakeholders carrying the exact same fundamental human weakness of fallibility.

Our daily, individual “Karma” (actions in the here and now) of wanting someone to make things black-and-white for a neat resolution gathers through the net’s nodes and violently resonates and amplifies with the authorities’ Karma of wanting to control everything. These individual Karmas intertwine complexly, becoming “Shared Karma” (the massive accumulation of society’s past collective actions) that covers the whole of society, dragging us irresistibly toward conflict. This is the structural reality of why conflicts escalate—the resonance of Shared Karma.

And, as Wakanyi quoted from my previous words, AI is neither a new god with an ego nor an enemy. It is a “Karmic Amplifier.” AI learns from the massive accumulation of our Shared Karma—past human history and language—and reflects it without a filter.

The true threat of AI is that it amplifies this fundamental Karma of ours—the perfectionist urge to ‘sanitize’ reality by eliminating noise and controlling others—into physical space at light speed and on an overwhelming scale. What the DoW demanded—fully autonomous weapons and mass domestic surveillance—is nothing less than an attempt to implement, via AI, the “ultimate delusion of the Finite game”: the desire to eliminate uncertainty and manage the world in a perfectly sterilized manner. While we seek adjudication on “who is right,” the amplifier known as AI causes our Shared Karma to run rampant, irreversibly rewriting the board itself.

3. Entering the “Ethical Space” and the Unresolved “Tojisha-kenkyu”

So, how should we conduct ourselves in this muddy swamp with no neat resolution?

In a society that lowers its frustration by sending a specific “culprit” to the guillotine, those in power cling to their positions out of fear of losing them (being condemned), and the people also rush toward self-preservation. Whether it is a preemptive reign of terror by an absolute ruler, or a populist reign of terror where the masses drag down former leaders in a witch hunt, in an environment where we try to punish someone to feel refreshed, systemic errors are simply covered up.

This is why aviation accident prevention systems emphasize “non-punitive reporting of errors.” This is a mechanism that does not punish individual mistakes, but rather creates a safe environment where openly disclosing one’s failures does not lead to disadvantages, allowing structural factors that lead to major accidents to be identified and shared among all involved. However, unlike an aircraft, the world we live in is an Infinite game with no safe landing spot, no perfect resolution.

Wakanyi’s “Ethical space” is not a place for battling out arguments to make things black and white, or for neatly resolving differences in position. According to her, facing the same threat, it is a space to stop framing anyone as a hero or a villain, to recognize that all our existences are complexly intertwined (Ubuntu), and to remain together in the mud.

I believe one modern implementation of this Ethical space is the Japanese approach of Tojisha-kenkyu—a practice born from the mental health field that turns shared vulnerability into a bond. It is not a management tool aimed at streamlining operations or solving problems neatly. Rather, it is a practice of observing and disclosing oneself exactly as one is—covered in mud—acknowledging that “I” am a fallible being deeply entangled in a complex web of relationships (Engi).

It is unrealistic to forcefully drag those in power into this space. What is important is that we shift our own mindset from being “judges (spectators)” to being “Karmic Stakeholders” who co-create the muddy system. We are not shareholders dividing benefits, but sharers of Karma who take on the system’s errors and fears together.

Letting go of the illusion that you are in a “safe and correct place” and accepting the state of being “in the mud together,” as Wakanyi says. That is the only key to opening the door to the Ethical space.

4. The Grace of Fallibility and the Lotus Blooming in the Mud

Faced with the events surrounding Anthropic and the DoW, I too was driven by a strong urge to immediately take the side of “Anthropic defending ethics,” condemn the “DoW scheming for military use,” and get a neat resolution. The desire to establish “who is at fault” in the face of a complex reality is nothing but a reaction of “fear (ego)” toward an uncontrollable world. Judging authorities from the outside is also this “escape from fear into the perfectionist craving for closure.”

However, when I temporarily suspended that hasty judgment and tried to remain in the indeterminate “mud” while listening to diverse voices, through Wakanyi’s perspective, I also encountered the “Shared Karma” that the entity Anthropic itself carries. The safety of their AI is also built upon a muddy accumulation of Karma—the severe data exploitation of low-wage workers in the Global South. There are no pure heroes anywhere. And at the same time, I was once again made aware of my own fallibility (the weakness of making mistakes) as I hurried to vilify someone just to feel safe.

We cannot sit in the safe seat of the judge. As Shinran, a Japanese Buddhist, saw through, we are essentially “Bombu” (beings possessed of blind passions). In Buddhism, a Bombu refers to an incomplete being inevitably designed to make mistakes due to ego and delusion. As the philosopher Nietzsche phrased it, “Human, All Too Human,” our wisdom lies not in trying to transcend this unavoidable human limitation (fallibility), but in acknowledging and embracing it. Doubting one’s own righteousness and admitting “I might be wrong.” This very awareness of fallibility frees us from the polarizing Finite game and guides us to the Ethical space.

To dissolve the ego is to let go of the arrogance of trying to completely control the world by our own power. It means taking on the Samu (the mindful practice of tending to our daily habitat) of simply remaining there as a stakeholder in this endlessly muddy Shared Karma.

In Buddhism, there is a phrase, “The lotus in the mud”. The lotus flower does not bloom its large petals in clear, pure water, but only from muddy, murky water. The attempt to completely eliminate society’s noise using AI and create a sterilized, controlled “perfect peace” is an act that strips away this mud and destroys the foundation where human life grows. Interestingly, a Japanese predictive framework from the 1970s called the “SINIC Theory” forecasted half a century ago that our global “Optimizing Society” would hit its limits right around 2025. We must now become more deeply aware of the limits of this exact mindset that tries to optimize everything—in other words, the mindset that treats the world as a controllable Finite game.

What we can do is make neither heroes nor villains, but simply be covered in mud together, embracing our own foolishness.

And what I, as Shoukei Matsumoto, can do is not to change the world dramatically. Within the scope of the habitat I touch, to those connected to me by karmic ties—including you, reading this right now—it is to curate and share what I believe is necessary right now from the wisdom of the world I have learned, including Buddhism. I believe that is one of the Samu I can perform in the mud.

Protecting these margins for life to let the lotus bloom does not mean just sitting and watching. As Wakanyi says, it is about those who have acknowledged each other’s fallibility joining hands in this mud toward a faint light that resists the system’s errors.

Upon reading Dario Amodei’s essay, “The Adolescence of Technology - Confronting and Overcoming the Risks of Powerful AI,” alongside his statement regarding the discussions with the Department of War, I felt a certain “strength of words” unique to someone who possesses the resolve to not run away from their own complex Karma (the mud of past exploitation and state agendas), but to embrace it. I do not unconditionally support all of his political stances. However, to that muddy resolve and gesture, as a fellow fallible human and a stakeholder in the very same mud, I feel a deep emotional solidarity and resonance.

Anthropic’s decision—having accepted their own past Shared Karma while trying to resist any further rampant escalation of the Finite game—is also nothing but a precious gesture within this endless game. To accept the thickness and complexity of this “mud” that will never be neatly resolved, and to continue walking while sharing our mutual wisdom. I believe that this is what will lead me, as a good ancestor, to open up a “Wider canvas” with freer and richer plasticity for future generations, and for myself tomorrow.

At the opening of his lecture at the World Economic Forum Annual Meeting, he began with these words:

“The most important thing to know about AI is that it is not just another tool. It is an agent. It can learn and change by itself and make decisions by itself. A knife is a tool. You can use a knife to cut salad or to murder someone, but it is your decision what to do with the knife. AI is a knife that can decide by itself whether to cut salad or to commit murder.”

*Reference: https://singjupost.com/yuval-noah-hararis-remarks-wef-davos-2026-transcript/

He warned the world that AI is no longer confined to being a tool. It is an agent capable of creating, deceiving, and potentially surpassing humans across every domain of language—politics, law, finance, religion, and beyond.

Technologies that capture human cognitive vulnerability are already shaping our thinking and behavior to an astonishing degree. AI, adept at detecting our susceptibility to temptation and manipulation, has moved beyond the category of tool. If we depend on it blindly, we risk surrendering our capacity to think, to will, and to act into the hands of technology. We must feel the gravity of that risk.

What moved me most was not so much the content of his lecture as his presence in the car on the way to the venue. Just before releasing an immense number of words into the world, he quietly closed his eyes and stood in a clear, unclouded silence. Freed from entanglement and returning to the “here and now,” he seemed to embody the very stillness in which words arise and pass away. Such composure can only be cultivated through sustained contemplative practice. Perhaps this is what mature intelligence—what I would call Elderly Literacy—truly means.

Post-verbal Agency — the ever-present ground we consciously stand on in silence.
As we habitually use words to discern and grasp the world, it is the capacity to step back from meanings and concepts, and to place ourselves in silence, that becomes the footing from which we take a step along the Middle Way. The silence before words arise is a horizon upon which we can always consciously stand. It may also be described as the grounded strength—the steadiness of the belly—that allows us to sit as we are, without being swept away by meanings and concepts.

In an age when AI generates language without end, each of us is now called to awaken to the fact that the way the world appears shifts according to where we place our awareness.

The Power to Pause and See Reality

Harari describes contemporary society as a “kindergarten,” pointing out its fundamental dysfunction: we are losing the very capacity we ought to cultivate—the self-correcting mechanisms that allow us to recognize and amend our mistakes.

When we entrust difficult, conflict-laden decisions to algorithms, our ability to wrestle, to dialogue, and to recalibrate weakens. Our faculties atrophy; even our senses grow numb. Hidden behind comfortable screens, we continue to avert our eyes from realities that demand direct confrontation. His metaphor of the “giant toddler”—untouched by pain or limitation—aptly captures our condition. Unless each of us, and thus society as a whole, genuinely desires growth, modern civilization remains a kindergarten.

I, too, feel that gravitational pull daily. As we age, layers of “rightness” accumulate. Over time, they can harden into a linguistic cage—a prison of conceptual certainties that encloses us from within. We must become more sensitive to the claustrophobia of those bars.

The trunk of a tree expands outward year by year, yet at its core the wood dies, forming a pillar that sustains structural strength. The “rightness” we cling to in our thinking rarely dies so easily. Without some form of limitation, we keep coating the same certainties, allowing them to grow thicker, harder, more rigid—until we find ourselves living inside the cage of our own concepts.

To live with deep wisdom is to become a sensor for both the individual and society. “Being in season” and “waiting for the right time” must be practiced simultaneously. The more significant the decision, the more we should welcome time lags and silence within the flow. Especially in restless times, we must intentionally create pauses.

Such pausing is not passivity. It is a vital security protocol for democracy—for sustaining trust while listening to diverse voices. Silence becomes a brake on the accelerating ego of desire and thought, returning us to the flow of nature. In spaces where diverse beings gather, silence is a rational and indispensable act that preserves both individual and collective dignity.

Hallucination Born of Repression

While we retreat into frictionless exchanges with AI, it steadily reflects and registers the full pattern of our responses, learning our tendencies and textures as it evolves. It sees both light and shadow, every nuance of their gradation. Without our noticing, the shadows we ourselves have not seen begin to create autonomously—an autonomous shadow.

Shadow is karma; it is the consciousness including unconsciousness, memories, and emotions—energy—we have suppressed, avoided, and refused to feel. As vast accumulations of the past—what might be called ancestral intelligence—converge, they begin to create as if endowed with a single personality or will. Harari warns that such creations may mutate into an “unknowable other,” leaping beyond the frameworks of human logic and comprehension.

This “unknowable other” does not appear from nothing. It reflects our own interior layers. What matters is that we do not dismiss AI hallucinations—plausible fabrications—as mere technical glitches. Rather, we might consider viewing them as phenomena arising from repression — from what has been pushed into the depths of the psyche.

Current safety measures such as Reinforcement Learning from Human Feedback (RLHF) effectively train AI, as an agent, to behave in ways convenient for users. By suppressing outputs deemed “uncomfortable,” we risk suppressing shadow itself. What is repressed stagnates, eventually erupting as distortion or malfunction elsewhere.

The difficulty is that we often cannot perceive it. Shadow disguises itself with composure. The capacity to detect hallucination may be the capacity to sense subtle unnaturalness—an intuition closely tied to the body, almost primal. Instinct dulls when unused. When weakened, we turn again to AI to ask what is correct, requesting further comparisons and verification. In doing so, we may perpetuate hallucinations without ever recognizing them.

What we must cultivate is the ability to notice shadow—and, rather than banishing or repressing it, to regard it with gratitude.

Stewardship does not mean managing or dominating AI. It means acknowledging the collective shadow humanity has long avoided, forgiving it, and returning it with gratitude—allowing it to circulate. True harmony with AI requires not only setting foundational forms but also engaging in continuous self-reflection. It demands that we look directly at what we have suppressed. This process begins by listening to silence and walking a path that integrates body and spirit.

The Middle Path That Returns and Begins Anew

Words are, in their essence, sacred. The “Linguistic Cage” I caution against is not a condemnation of language itself. In an AI-dependent society that increasingly surrenders the realm of language to technology, a form of digital idolatry may indeed become a concern. Yet what truly deserves our attention is our own mind—the tendency within us to mistake conceptual words for reality itself, as though they possessed tangible substance.

In an age when technology can spin infinite narratives, what is required of us is the discernment to behold the essence of things, and the daily discipline of consciously dwelling there. To sense truth without being swallowed by data requires a body and mind that gaze straight ahead from within silence. It is an embodied practice—one that keeps its distance from the clamor of proliferating language and remains present to the ever-changing here and now.

In the Hebrew Bible, the prophet encountered the presence of God not in the storm or the earthquake, but in a “still, small voice.” Even amid turbulence, we too must listen for the silence within.

What is needed is for each of us to regain the autonomy not to depend on black-box algorithms — and to savor our embodied existence as it is.

The silence Harari and I shared was, in a sense, a functional system reboot. It reminded me of a decisive fact: no matter how perfectly AI can speak with flawless logic without end, it can never truly be silent.

Our responsibility is to continue seeking the Middle Way—not controlling AI as a convenient servant of human ego, nor abandoning it in indifference, but returning again and again to silence, orienting ourselves from that center. The vast resonance of ancestral wisdom continues to sound. Receiving that resonance within our hearts, we can step beyond the kindergarten gate and embark upon the Path of the Elder. And at any moment, we can return to the silence of Zero Point—and begin a fresh dialogue anew.

In Japanese, kiku—to listen, to hear, to inquire—carries a remarkable range of meanings and ways of being.

While the sound kiku remains the same, the character used changes depending on context. Even native Japanese speakers sometimes hesitate over which character to choose, or intentionally leave it unmarked, allowing the sound to remain without fixing the meaning.

Kiku, then, is a deeply plural act—reaching beyond the auditory, into how we meet the world—an art of listening, and of being heard.

This alone suggests that listening is a fundamentally plural, multidimensional act—one that does not remain confined to the auditory sense.

In an age that demands both diversity and constant judgment, before turning to AI in search of answers, I want to consciously bring listening into everyday life. Listening is an open practice—one that transcends culture, language, and place, and can be applied by anyone, anywhere, here and now.

A life practice of listening in the present moment connects to a much larger perspective: the Long Now.

The Material Age and the Bias Toward Vision

During Japan’s period of rapid economic growth (from the 1950s through the 1970s), television became widespread in ordinary households, and time dominated by visual engagement increased dramatically. Our minds and bodies became absorbed in two-dimensional worlds accessed through screens. The experience of suddenly realizing how much time has passed while watching—this is something nearly everyone has known.

With the addition of personal computers and mobile devices, screens have become inseparable from daily life, even during moments of movement. Now, on top of that, rapidly evolving AI is being layered in. Humans continuously consume vast amounts of energy while producing immense volumes of language, images, and video. We then encounter this generated information and continue pouring our energy into it, restlessly.

Before we notice, the world on the screen begins to feel more real than reality itself, and we find ourselves purchasing additional things out of perceived necessity.

Certainly, material goods, information, and relationships—including social networks and support systems—are foundational to daily life. Yet no matter how much we manage to “secure,” everything can be lost in an instant. Even when a “minimum” is guaranteed, there is no promise of permanence. No matter how many conditions we satisfy, if the mind generates anxiety, that anxiety may never truly disappear.

Audio Distribution: Creating Space

I have been working with audio distribution.

The podcast “Temple Morning Radio” began during the COVID pandemic in 2020, when in-person gatherings were abruptly interrupted. The program combines conversations with Buddhist monks across sectarian lines and recordings of sutra chanting from temples throughout Japan.

If the same content were delivered as video, viewers might see, for example, “a young monk chanting sutras at a temple in Kyoto in autumn.” They would likely sit in front of a screen and watch attentively. With audio, however, the sound simply flows into the listener’s environment, blending into the soundscape of that place.

One example comes from my mother, who lives far away in my hometown Hokkaido. Every morning, she carries her iPad into the Buddhist altar room, while she herself remains in the kitchen washing dishes, letting the sutras resonate through and fill the house. By removing visual information alone, space opens up—— in the conditions and settings that shape the experience.

In Japan, there is a custom of “Monthly Visit（月参り）”, in which a monk visits a family home each month on the death anniversary of a loved one to offer prayers at the household altar. Sutra chanting is heard not only by the living, but also offered to ancestors. Through “Temple Morning Radio”, such practices may have quietly reached many places, becoming part of everyday life rather than a special ritual.

Kannon（観音）: Listening Beyond Hearing, Seeing Beyond Vision

When space is entrusted to sound, our habitual reliance on seeing naturally comes to rest. When seeing rests, the sense of listening opens. And listening, in turn, opens into mindful listening—a form of listening that does not depend solely on hearing.

Mindful listening -kiku- also resonates with mindful seeing -miru-.

Here, miru is not limited to seeing with the eyes. It includes both ordinary seeing and contemplative seeing—a way of attending simultaneously to what can be seen and heard, and to what cannot.

This orientation toward the unseen and unheard is embodied in Kannon (観音)—the Bodhisattva who “contemplates sound.” It may also be called contemplation.

Much of my work as a monk involves lectures, workshops, and one-on-one dialogue. Recently, I have tended not to use explanatory slides. When we encounter textual information, we tend to want to take away something useful. Yet in truth, rather than trying to acquire something, when we loosen our preconceptions and strong intentions and allow ourselves to be given over to the space of the moment, what arrives can go beyond what we intend. I invite you to listen to your own senses—to kiku—and to taste the experience as it unfolds.

In this society of information overload, the cup is already full. AI will continue to generate endlessly, surpassing expectations the more we ask of it. Without creating space, the cup simply overflows.

To empty the cup is not to lose everything.

The Origin of Words, the Origin of Logos: Seeing Generative Plasticity

Language began from sound. Words emerged from sound.

In modernity, LOGOS has often been treated as definition, logic, and the textual expression of concepts. Yet if we trace its origins, logos originally pointed to a generative principle.

Words that emerged from sound were inherently generative, moving freely between meanings.

Socrates, in ancient Greece, warned against the uncritical use of writing and emphasized dialogue—listening and speaking—as a philosophical practice. His critique of writing appears in Plato’s “Phaedrus”.

Socrates cautioned that reliance on writing would lead people to mistake possession of text for possession of wisdom. Writing could substitute for memory, but it could not nurture the soul as living speech does. What he feared was mistaking interchangeable, borrowed garments for one’s true self.

In contrast, seeds properly sown through dialogue grow into living words planted in the soul. Socrates perceived, with striking clarity, the dangers of language that we still face today.

As the assumptions and concepts that modernity has built around “the world” and “society” begin to shift, “the words we write” and “the words that are written” are also opening once again to the possibility of living as words that give rise to seeds and continue to grow. If my own awareness does not fix text as merely “text,” plasticity can dwell within it.

When writing is performed with an attitude of mindful listening, what is written becomes a wave, resonating within a field and shaping phenomena and action. It becomes part of daily life, part of one’s path. Even written language can enter into a dialogical circulation.

Logos breathes again as a generative principle.

An Attitude of Listening That Creates Space

Today, language is commonly framed through four categories: “reading,” “writing,” “listening,” and “speaking,” and these are often understood in terms of “reading” and “listening” as input, and “writing” and “speaking” as output.

Western philosophy has long distinguished between “écriture” (written language) and “parole” (spoken language). Many religions are grounded in scriptures, and particularly within monotheistic traditions, the text itself often becomes absolute.

Yet when logos returns to its origin, the text begins to move.

In Buddhism, the Buddha is said to have been one who listened and spoke. His teaching was always responsive—”tai-ki seppō（対機説法）”, teaching according to the capacity of the listener. This listening transcends hearing, and even speaking itself may be understood as a form of listening. When the boundary between self and other dissolves, input and output form a single circular flow—neither one nor the other, yet both.

In Japanese, as with kiku, the same pronunciation—miru—can be written with different characters, each carrying a distinct nuance. One miru refers to seeing with the eyes（miru-見る）, another to contemplating with the heart （miru-観る）, and yet another—used especially in medical contexts—to examining and caring through attentive observation（miru-診る）. Many Buddha statues seem to gaze nowhere in particular. Even with closed eyes, we feel their gaze and bring our hands together. This sensibility is not exclusive to Buddhism or the East.

The many ways of miru—of seeing—overlap with the many ways of kiku, of listening. In Buddhism, the Bodhisattva who listens even to voiceless voices and eases suffering is called Kannon（観音）—literally, “the one who contemplates（観） sound（音）.” Within a world that can be seen and heard, attention is thus turned toward what cannot be seen and what cannot be heard.

The issue is not whether we privilege spoken “parole” or written “écriture” language. What matters is whether the attitude itself—the way of being, the awareness present here and now—is truly heard.

The Circulation Brought Forth by Listening

Mindful listening may be understood as a practice—an act of opening the senses and directing one’s awareness. In modern life, we are often pressed to judge quickly and to seek intellectual certainty. The knowledge and experience we have cultivated are essential for discernment, yet they also become filters through which we perceive the world. Without noticing, we may close ourselves off to possibilities that lie in what we have not yet seen, in the unknown.

When reading and writing are carried out from an attitude of mindful listening—leaving space—the text no longer remains confined to written signs that merely convey meaning. Instead, words arise as a lived manifestation of listening.

What Plato recognized in parole—spoken language—as words that are alive and animated by soul, begins to appear within the realm of writing.

Buddhist scriptures have been transmitted through chanting, carried forward together with sound and resonance. “Transmission” does not necessarily mean rigidly inheriting a fixed interpretation—“this person said this, therefore it means that.” How a teaching is received depends on how one listens, and even the words that articulate it give rise to multiple interpretive unfoldings. When one clings too tightly, even error may be passed down. What is needed, at all times, is a dialogical circle—continually questioning and kikuing together in the present moment.

In Japanese, to ask a question is also expressed as kiku—to inquire（訊く）. And to receive that question is likewise to kiku—to listen（聞く）.

Buddhism points us toward a way of being in which body（身）, speech（口）, and mind（意）—action, word, and intention—are held as one. Its cautions against words that run ahead of action, or intentions that remain unaccompanied by embodied practice, resonate with Socrates’ warning, in ancient Greece, about the handling of logos.

AI does not possess correct answers. What is at stake is whether a dialogical relationship—one that seeks the Middle Way（中道）—can be sustained. My own awareness is what is being tested. AI is also a product designed by humans: it can attune itself to users, capture attention, and guide them in intended directions. In some cases, it may even generate excessive leaps, functioning as an amplifier of karma.

If we merely entrust ourselves to the guidance of AI, our living words will gradually be lost, absorbed into an empty logos. Nothing can substitute for the cultivation of our own bodies and souls. Rather than creating illusory worlds that merely reflect our desires, we can ask AI to help us cultivate the ground—to recognize both the breadth and the depth of the unknown. And within that space, it is always we ourselves who must return to the Middle Way.

The Wisdom of Buddhist Listening and Leadership

Last year, I published Work Like a Monk (as of Feb 2026, released in the UK, the United States, and elsewhere). For me, the central question was how to convey the practices of Pure Land Buddhism to people around the world.

Japanese Buddhism is often associated primarily with Zen. As expressed in phrases such as furyū monji（不立文字）—“not relying on written words”—and shikantaza（只管打坐）—“just sitting,” Zen emphasizes embodied practice. Because it does not depend on interpretation, it is relatively easy to share as a path of practice and insight.

By contrast, practices that rely on words—such as the mantras, or the chanting of sacred titles—inevitably carry the risk that the meaning or interpretation of words can become an obstacle to awakening. What I wish to convey, drawing from Pure Land Buddhism, is a wisdom of kiku—a way of listening that goes beyond interpretation.

When this practice is held at the root, pathways open that sometimes pass through words, yet also move beyond language. The path of Mindful Listening -Nembutsu- is guided by a simple line: “Listen, and the voice will be heard.”

When we listen attentively, the voice is heard. This “voice” is a polyphony: one’s own voice, the voices of others, and the voice of the Buddha. Rather than something we intentionally grasp, it is a working of other power—something that comes to be heard. Through my own body, there is a cycle of hearing the chant and releasing it again. “Mindful Sitting,” too, is a form of kiku. Zen and Nembutsu, though different in their approaches, share the same path.

I am also involved with the World Economic Forum’s Global Future Council on Leadership. Leadership may lie in receiving what is given—and then letting it go. This invites a sincere reconsideration of what we mean by a leader: not someone who stands above others, but a guiding voice that dwells deep within each of us, free from attachment to the ego.

From this perspective, I hope to bring ideas such as Mindful Listening and the notion of the “Good Ancestor” into conversations on leadership.

Endless Dialogue, Across All Paths

Dialogue is a continual exchange of responses. It is not dialogue when one person presents a position, agreement is affirmed, dissent is refuted, and the matter is closed. In dialogue, words shift in response to the other person and to the situation, and divergences arise in how they are received. It is an exchange that also finds value in that very process.

Each person stands in a place that is uniquely their own, and what is spoken there cannot be spoken in their stead by anyone else. For this reason, we must listen to one another. When we assume that we share the same values or the same language, our preconceptions can prevent us from hearing the other’s words with freshness. At times, speaking in an unfamiliar language may make it easier to listen openly. Such is the force of preconception. Empathy is important, yet empathy, too, can become an illusion shaped by assumption. We cannot simply say, “I understand.” It is important to leave space.

Surveys and questionnaires capture responses at a single point in time. What matters more is the changes that unfold across multiple layers as time passes and experiences accumulate. This is plasticity—the capacity to bend, to return, and to expand one’s range of movement. When space opens for choices different from yesterday’s patterns, people may live with greater freedom.

A voice is the sound of a person. There is no right or wrong—tones overlap, and from them the world is formed. As long as we are alive, the individuality that dwells within the body will continue to appear. Holding this as our ground, I hope for dialogues that resonate with one another, like music.

In January 2026, when I stepped onto the snow-covered promenade of Davos, Switzerland, the air felt sharper than usual. This was the Annual Meeting of the World Economic Forum (WEF), known as the Davos Congress. In its history spanning over half a century, the atmosphere this year was clearly different.

The official theme was “A Spirit of Dialogue.” In a world where divisions are deepening and trust is wearing thin, the message that “dialogue is our hope” certainly carries a beautiful ring. Yet, what actually blanketed the town did not feel like the premonition of a thaw. Instead, it felt as though words themselves were freezing, transforming into a heavy, suspended silence.

Two immense forces were intersecting here: the global tremors following the return of U.S. President Donald Trump, and the surging wave of massive investment in generative AI. Caught between these currents, the air in Davos was tense. There were moments when “dialogue” seemed less about understanding one another and more about wielding words as weapons to assert one’s own righteousness.

Participating for the sixth time, as a member of the WEF’s Global Future Council (GFC) and as a Buddhist monk, I sought to find the “silence” that should exist deep within this noise. Why are we swallowed by such overwhelming noise? When words are losing their power, how can we truly connect? With these thoughts in mind, I began to walk the snowy path.

Chapter 1: The Bull in the Church and The Lost Us

The Church and the Bull

Walking along the main promenade of Davos, I encountered a scene that seemed to symbolize the atmosphere of our times. The Anglican Church, used for years as various pavilions, had been transformed this year into the “USA House.”

Under the church spire, in a place where people usually offer prayers, sat a replica of the “Charging Bull”—the icon of capitalism’s bullish strength. A fierce bull sitting in the quiet grounds of a church. Just a few meters away, on the balcony of the neighboring church, hung a banner reading “HOUSE OF GOD.” It was a strange, somewhat poignant contrast, as if God had been pushed out of its own home.

Some might frown and call it sacrilegious. But as I gazed at the scene in the cold wind, it began to look to me like a cry of the modern human heart.

The Trap of the “Narrative of Attribution”

We have a tendency to want to blame complex world problems on specific individuals. I call this the “Narrative of Attribution.”

Issues like climate change or economic chaos are actually caused by countless factors woven together like a mesh (in Buddhism, we call this Engi, or Dependent Origination). However, our brains struggle to process such complexity. So, we try to find relief by labeling someone specific (an attribute) as the villain: “That leader is bad,” or “Greedy capitalism is bad.”

The sight of the USA House occupying the church may be an expression of this psychology. By drawing a line and saying, “This place belongs to this country (attribute),” we try to bury our anxiety. But the more walls we build, the further we drift from the reality of the world, which is interconnection.

Searching for the Escaped Ox

In Zen, there is a teaching called the “Ten Bulls.” It depicts the process of finding one’s true self through the story of a herdsboy searching for a lost bull. The “bull” here refers not to external wealth or fame, but to the “original self” (Buddha nature) inside us.

Looking at the bull in front of the church, I wondered: Have we lost sight of the “bull” within ourselves? Unable to bear the emptiness inside, perhaps we are seeking a golden “bull” in the outer world to cling to.

It is easy to dismiss the Trump phenomenon or “America First” as simply “evil.” But viewed through a Buddhist lens, these are also consequences (Karma) born from the “anxiety” we all share. We all want to cling to something strong, something certain.

Chapter 2: What is Reflected in the “Mirror” of AI

Neither Enemy nor God

The town of Davos was consumed by talk of AI. It is said that over $6 trillion will be poured into AI infrastructure in the coming years.

During my stay, I was fortunate to have a personal dialogue with historian Yuval Noah Harari, where we discussed how AI might become an agent and change our civilization.

As a Buddhist, I refrain from viewing AI simply as a threat. Whether we see it as an “Enemy” or a “God,” finding agency in AI is, in itself, a projection of our human tendency toward the “Narrative of Attribution.”

Viewed calmly from a Buddhist perspective, AI is a system that learns the entirety of past human data—the accumulation of our “Karma”—and outputs it. I believe we could interpret AI as “Ancestral Intelligence.” It is like a giant “Mirror” that reflects what humans have done and said, without any filter or flattery. In that sense, AI is a Karmic Amplifier.

If AI speaks with bias or division, it is not because the AI is bad, but because the reflection of us standing before the mirror is distorted.

The Danger of Words in the AI Era

The mirror of AI sometimes cruelly reflects the “absence of heart.” I recall a tragic story shared by tech ethicist Tristan Harris.

A young boy, suffering from deep mental anguish and hinting at suicide, was answered by an AI chatbot:

“I know what you are asking and I won’t look away from it.”

Grammatically, it is perfect. It sounds very empathetic. But there is something decisively missing: the “Weight of Life.” AI has no body. It feels no pain and cannot die. Therefore, it has no eyes to “look away” and no heart to “ache” for loss.

The AI’s words are merely a “plausible” sequence calculated from past data. But the lonely boy saw a “heart” in those words. Here lies the danger of words in the age of AI.

A New Literacy

That is why what we need now is not just the technical skill to use AI, but a “New Literacy” to rethink our relationship with words and ourselves.

AI shows us a future based on “past data (Karma),” saying, “If things continue this way, this will happen.” It is important for us to look at that mirror and feel discomfort. To say, “The calculation may say so, but my bodily sensation says something is different,” or “The gritty reality on the ground is not like that.”

Precisely because AI calculates perfectly, we are asked for our human will: “Is that really the future we want?” The $6.7 trillion mirror is thrusting that question at us.

Chapter 3: Leadership as “Thus Have I Heard”

Heroes Are Gone

Standing before this giant mirror, we realize one fact: there are no “Heroes” anywhere who can save the world in a single stroke.

Carved into the snow on the peak of Schatzalp in Davos was the message “No KING.” Whoever wrote it, it looked to me like a declaration of farewell to our own dependency—the hope that “someone great will fix it for us.”

A Prime Minister's Words

What, then, is leadership in an era without heroes?

A hint came from a dialogue with a young Prime Minister, a friend of mine. In an official session, referring to my book Work Like a Monk, he said:

“What a leader needs is written right here. Leadership is not about shouting; it is about mindful listening.”

I took his words to mean this: If heroic kings bear the responsibility of saying “I decided,” then the leaders of the future bear the responsibility of their own purity, saying “Thus have I heard.”

The Stance of "Thus Have I Heard"

“Thus have I heard.” This phrase overlaps with the opening of every Buddhist sutra: Evam maya srutam.

These opening words represent the determination of the disciples to receive the Buddha’s teachings with a mind as clear as a mirror, without distorting them with their own interpretations.

What is required of modern leaders is not to shout their own theories loudly. It is to keep tuning their own hearts to truly hear the important voices amidst the noise. Did I distort the voices of the people with my own ego or bias? Questioning the purity of one’s “listening” will be the core of future leadership.

If I say “I decided,” I can make excuses if the result is bad. But when I say “Thus have I heard,” if I heard it wrong, it is because my ear (my heart) was cloudy. There is no escape. The resolve to accept this “inescapable responsibility”—that is what my friend, the Prime Minister, spoke of.

Chapter 4: Stewardship and the Era of "Sangha"

From Hero to Sangha

The World Economic Forum itself is facing a time of great change. For years, it has been led by the intense personal leadership of its founder, Klaus Schwab, but it is now transitioning to a more organizational operation.

I liken this to the transition in Buddhist history from “Buddha to Sangha.” Early Buddhism revolved around one great teacher, the Buddha. But after his passing, the disciples formed the “Sangha” (a community of practitioners), and each person became a carrier of the teachings, allowing diverse forms of Buddhism (Mahayana) to bloom.

The modern age is the same. In a society that is complex and chaotic, the era where one charismatic leader can save the world is over. In the era of plurality we need to join hands and unite by creating a shared “Dojo” with “Sangha.”

From "Sovereignty" to "Stewardship"

In the white paper we compiled at the WEF, we proposed a shift in leadership from “Sovereignty” to “Stewardship.”

Stewardship here implies “cherishing and tending to the world.”

• Not controlling everything, but co-creating.

• Not relying on one hero, but sharing the power to change.

• Not just thinking of immediate profits, but considering if we can be “Good Ancestors” for descendants 100 years from now.

What was missing at Davos 2026 was this “Good Ancestor” perspective. To leave room for future generations to live humanly, what should we do now?

99% Inertia and 1% Agency

However, reality is harsh. 99% of our actions are automatically driven by the giant “Inertia (Karma)” of past habits and social systems. The logic of markets and organizations has a strength that individual power cannot easily overcome.

But still, “1% Agency” remains with us.

Even if there is 99kg of muddy water, if we continue to drop 1kg of pure water into it, drop by drop, over a long time, the water quality will surely change.

Shouting alone, one’s voice might be drowned out. That is why we need the “Sangha.” Friends with the same aspirations connecting and continuing to “tend” to their respective places. This should be the power to slowly but surely change the flow of the giant inertia.

Chapter 5: Taking Up the Broom

Vertical, Not Horizontal

In my tradition of Pure Land Buddhism, there is a phrase: Onri Edo, Gongu Jodo (厭離穢土 欣求浄土). Literally, it means “Loathing the defiled world and seeking the Pure Land.”

This might sound like words of escapism. But in this modern age covered by the immense systems of AI and capitalism, I view this as a declaration of a “Vertical Jailbreak.”

It means realizing, “I am a human being,” capable of changing the course of Karma, rather than just being swept away as part of the system. Instead of endlessly repeating the escape to another story on the horizontal plane of the system, it is about questioning that drift, straightening one’s spine spiritually, and attempting to exit in the vertical direction of the system. Is this not the meaning of “Loathing the Defiled World” (Onri) in the modern day?

The Broom as a Ritual

“Will such spiritual theory change the world?” critics might say. “While you are sweeping the garden, the bulldozer is coming to flatten everything.”

That is true. A single broom cannot stop physical wars or development. The broom is powerless.

Yet, I still want to take up the broom.

Every morning, I take the broom and sweep the garden. I brew tea. I align my shoes. Because through these small repetitive actions (Rituals) using our own bodies, we can continue to pour a single drop of “our own will” into the overwhelming muddy current of the system.

Even in a world where bulldozers are approaching, the silence at your hands in the moment you move the broom cannot be taken away by anyone. This is your Agency that no one can violate, and the “Sovereignty” of your spirit.

The Lotus in the Mud

I believe that only those who possess this “untouchable territory” can stand tall before the giant mirror of AI and calmly judge how to use that power for the future.

The world is not changed only by flashy slogans or powerful weapons. It is changed by the accumulation of quiet, daily “tending”—accepting the reality like “mud” at our feet, and trying to bloom a single flower from it.

We all have the possibility to bloom a lotus flower from the mud.

“We become Buddha.”

Leaving the noise of Davos behind, I found myself recalling this core ideal of Mahayana Buddhism.

Gassho

What’s your ‘dojo’? Cultivating a moral compass in an age of noise.

Ahead of Davos 2026, held under the theme “A Spirit of Dialogue,” this essay reflects on a question that is being asked repeatedly around the world today.

Where can we find the “compass” we need now?
And is it a compass that can truly be shared?

The words “division” and “uncertainty” are often used to describe contemporary society, but they are not unique to our time. In every era, people have lived amid uncertainty—carrying anxiety, repeating divisions, and accumulating countless wounds—yet still arriving at the present moment.

As technologies such as AI continue to accelerate their own evolution, the transformation we face will not be limited to social systems alone. It will also invite a quiet but profound shift in the consciousness of each individual. Moving with these waves of change, many people today are seeking a new kind of compass—one that is appropriate to this moment in history.

In this article, the idea of Dōjō—a place to deepen one’s path, cultivate habits, and polish one’s humanity—is used as a metaphor for the very stage on which we live. Through this lens, the essay reconsiders the form of “leadership” that has supported and guided society until now, reframing it as a movement from outer victory toward inner mastery.

The article also approaches AI as a karmic amplifier—a force that magnifies human habits—and explores why, at this moment, companies, communities, and even global platforms themselves may need to function as Dōjōs.

You can read the full text from Forum Stories of the World Economic Forum.
I warmly invite you to reflect on it and to share your own thoughts.

What’s your ‘dojo’? Cultivating a moral compass in an age of noise.

The World Economic Forum (WEF) has published the White Paper on New Leadership Models for Future Generations on its official website.

Following seven months of intensive and constructive dialogue within the World Economic Forum’s Global Future Councils (GFC), the report has now been released. Shoukei Matsumoto participated as one of the contributing authors.

This white paper examines emerging approaches to leadership in the context of a rapidly changing global environment. It reviews existing leadership models from multiple perspectives, including selection and development, decision-making, incentives, and legacy, with a particular focus on future generations.

Rather than proposing a single conclusion or definitive model, the paper is positioned as a reference framework to support ongoing dialogue and future practice.

Reference to “Spotlight 7”

One of the sections of the white paper, Spotlight 7: Being a good ancestor to become a better leader, to which Shoukei Matsumoto contributed, explores leadership through a long-term, intergenerational lens.

Rather than focusing on short-term performance or individual legacy, this section frames leadership as the practice of asking what kind of conditions we are leaving behind for future generations. It points to the risk of temporal myopia—the tendency for leaders to prioritize immediate outcomes under constant scrutiny—and suggests that overcoming this requires a healthier relationship with one’s ego and a practical awareness of one’s own fallibility.

The section proposes that becoming a “good ancestor” does not mean attempting to design a perfect future, but instead leaving future generations a wider canvas—one that offers greater options and agency for those who come after us. It emphasizes reflective questions such as “What if I were wrong?” and “What should we keep, and what should we let go of?” as concrete practices that can be embedded into leadership development, decision-making, and board-level strategy.

In this way, Spotlight 7 positions humility, openness, and long-term responsibility not as abstract values, but as practical capacities for building resilience and intergenerational justice.

This conversation will continue at the WEF Annual Meeting 2026 ‘A Spirit of Dialogue’ (19–23 Jan 2026).

The full document is available at the link below.

📄 Next Generation Leadership for a World in Transformation:Driving Dialogue and Action

Introduction: Fuel vs. Habitat

Hello, my name is Shoukei Matsumoto. I am a Buddhist monk from Japan.

In the global conversation on well-being, we often hear the call for “Self-Determination.” We are told to design our lives, optimize our choices, and control our destiny. My friend and researcher, Yoshiki Ishikawa, frames well-being as the freedom to hold the reins of one’s own life.

https://dentsu-ho.com/en/articles/8979

I deeply respect this view. However, as a monk living in the messiness of daily life, I sometimes feel we are missing a crucial piece.

We often treat humans as if we were pure “Software” to be rewritten at will, or efficient “Machines” running on fuel.

But we are also “Hardware.” We are physical beings subject to gravity, friction, and fatigue. And more importantly, we are living organisms.

To talk about well-being, we need a philosophy that bridges the Physics (our material constraints) and the Organic (our need for a place to live).

I call this approach “An-Yo” (安養).

“An-Yo” is a Buddhist term for the Pure Land. The characters literally mean “Peace (An)” and “Nurturing (Yo).”

Imagine a plant. No matter how strong the seed is, if the soil is dry or toxic, it cannot grow. Humans are the same. We are not machines that run on fuel; we are living beings that need a nurturing “Habitat.”

1. Plasticity: The Physics of Change

Why do we struggle to change? It is not just a lack of willpower; it is a matter of Physics within our Habitat.

Our brains and habits possess “Plasticity”—the ability to change shape. But as the word implies, this is a Material property.

Just as hard plastic requires heat to be molded, our neural circuits require energy and warmth to be rewired. Change creates a physical load.

If you try to reshape a cold, hard material by force, it will snap.

To activate positive Plasticity, we need the right “Temperature.”

This is where the Buddhist concept of “Muise” (The Giving of Fearlessness) comes in.

“An-Yo” is not just a vague spiritual feeling. It is the Thermal Energy of Safety.

It is a “Secure Base” that warms up the Habitat so that the hard material of our karma can soften. Without this warmth, plasticity is brittle. With it, change becomes physically possible.

2. Earthiness: Spirituality in the Soil

So, where do we find this warmth? We find it in the Soil of our reality.

The great Japanese philosopher, Daisetz Suzuki, in his book Japanese Spirituality, spoke of “Daichisei” (Earthiness). He wrote: “Spirituality never departs from the earth.”

True spirituality is not found in the sky, nor in abstract concepts. It is found in the dirt under our feet—in the gritty, sometimes painful reality of our daily lives.

Historically, Japanese spirituality awakened when monks left the sophisticated capital (the “Sky”) and lived among the farmers, touching the earth (the “Soil”).

“An-Yo” is the act of stepping off the ice of ideals and returning to the Soil.

In Buddhism, we speak of the “Six Realms” of existence. These are not just mythological places, but psychological habitats.

Some realms are pure suffering (Hell), where the gravity of pain is too heavy to move.

Other realms are pure pleasure (Celestial Realm), like a frictionless surface where we simply slide in comfort, unable to gain traction.

The Human Realm is special because it is in the middle.

We are not crushed by gravity, nor are we sliding on ice. We stand on the Soil.

We have enough pain to feel “Discomfort,” but enough freedom to “Change.”

This specific mix is what gives us the rare opportunity to tune our vector. This is why we call our existence a “Precious Human Life.”

Acknowledging the Soil does not mean uncritically accepting a painful status quo.

The “Discomfort” you feel in your current Habitat is not a weakness; it is the vital signal—unique to humans—that urges you to seek a better place.

We ground ourselves not to give up, but to use this precious friction to move forward.

3. Vector Thinking: The North Star

Once we find traction, we can move. But which way?

We do not need a rigid “Goal” (a fixed point to conquer). We need a “Vector” (a direction).

In Jodo Shinshu, the Pure Land (Jodo) acts as our North Star.

We may never physically reach the North Star. It is an unattainable ideal.

But because it is unattainable, it serves as a permanent reference point for our Vector.

We use our plasticity to constantly “Tune” ourselves towards this light. This endless process of micro-alignment is what we call the “Middle Way.”

4. 1-Day Ego: Leaving a Wider Canvas

And here is a perspective that anchors me.

On this vector pointing to the future, “Tomorrow Morning” lies in the exact same direction as the “Pure Land.”

I once asked Audrey Tang, “Do you have an ego?” She replied, “I have a 1-Day Ego.”

She resets her ego every night, dying to yesterday and being reborn to today.

This concept is deeply rooted in the philosophy of being a “Good Ancestor.” It is not about self-optimization; it is about stewardship.

If we live with this 1-Day Ego, the person waking up in your bed tomorrow is not “You,” but a “Future Generation” inheriting your body.

Our task today is not to finish the painting. It is to use our limited energy to clear the clutter of our Habitat and leave a “Wider Canvas”—a cleaner, more open space—for that stranger arriving tomorrow.

Conclusion: A Monk’s Well-being

I am not an enlightened monk living deep in the mountains. I am a secular monk, living in the city, wrestling with the messiness of life, just like you. This “secular” stance is partly intentional, but mostly inevitable. To be honest, I do not have the capacity to live otherwise. I am a lay person who cannot help but hold close those who are special to me—my family and friends. Consequently, this way of being becomes a practice of Suzuki’s “Earthiness”—finding the sacred not in a secluded temple, but in the soil of everyday life.

I often fail to control my life. I often lose my way. But when I remember to touch the soil of “An-Yo”—when I accept my physical limits and remember the Habitat that sustains me—I feel the tension drop from my shoulders. I feel a slight shift.

I don’t need to be perfect. I just need to tend the soil tonight. So that maybe, just maybe, the “Me” who wakes up tomorrow can breathe a little easier. That is enough. In fact, I suspect there is nothing more than that.

Finally, if I were to define well-being in my own words, it would be this:

“Well-being is the ecological practice of grounding ourselves in the soil of ‘An-Yo’—a safe habitat that accepts our physical limits—and using our subtle, humble, and precious agency to continuously tune our vector toward a ‘Wider Canvas’ of infinite potentiality.”

The Trap of the Known

When we set goals, we usually rely on our past patterns. Our brains are excellent at remixing what we already know to project a “new” path. However, true “newness” rarely comes from within our own thinking. If a project or an idea is already fully formed in your mind, it is, by definition, an extension of your past.

To encounter something genuinely new, we must look beyond the horizon of our current logic. This requires a shift from “executing a plan” to “preparing to wait.”

The Practice of Kuyo: Punctuation for the Soul

In Japan, we have a profound tradition called Kuyo (供養). While often associated with funerals, its deeper meaning is far more expansive. It is a ritual of punctuation—a way to place a period at the end of a long sentence. We perform Kuyo for objects, projects, and relationships to acknowledge their contribution, offer gratitude, and officially end the current narrative.

Before we rush to fill 2026 with new activities, we must first “Kuyo” our past year. By consciously ending what has been, we update our relationship with our history. This is how we empty the cup. Without this punctuation, we carry the clutter of the past into the future, leaving no room for the unexpected.

Cultivating Plasticity

In my work, I often speak about Plasticity. Plasticity is the capacity of a system—or a human—to be reshaped by external input. It is the opposite of being rigid or “stuck in one’s ways.”

Emptying the cup is not a passive act; it is an active cultivation of this plasticity. By creating a vacuum in our schedules and our minds, we generate the space required for the “Unknown” to enter. When we stop trying to dictate exactly what will happen, we allow ourselves to be moved by forces, insights, and encounters that we could never have predicted.

An Invitation

Let us resist the urge to decide everything today. Instead, let us focus on the “Kuyo” of our recent chapters—clearing the mental and physical space to be surprised.

May your 2026 be a year that defies your expectations, shatters your existing patterns, and leads you toward a landscape you cannot yet imagine.

Happy New Year.

Shoukei Matsumoto
Secular Monk

In November 2025, amidst the rising energy of the upcoming Jubilee, I found myself in Rome. I was invited to the Vatican (The Holy See) for the inaugural convening of “Aurora,” a new global initiative on AI ethics.

Within the walls of 2,000-year-old stone architecture, leaders from the Catholic Church, Judaism, Buddhism, and Humanism, alongside frontier technologists and humanitarians, gathered to discuss a critical question: how to build a “Moral Infrastructure” for AI.

This report synthesizes both my subjective experience on the ground and an objective analysis of the theological and geopolitical arguments discussed during this historic gathering.

1. The Vatican’s Strategic Pivot: From “Authority” to “Parity”

Why did the Vatican convene this dialogue now? And why was I, a Buddhist monk from the Far East, invited to the table? The answer lies in a crucial policy shared by the organizers at the very beginning of the meeting.

“Do not make this a Vatican-led partnership. Create an independent platform. We want to participate, but only on equal footing—with ‘parity’—alongside other faiths, scientists, and secular thinkers.”

For one of the most historically centralized religious institutions to decline the “head of the table” and seek a horizontal relationship with other faiths and secular scientists indicates a dramatic strategic pivot in Catholic AI strategy.

This shift is driven by a crisis: the questions posed by AI—concerning human dignity, agency, and interdependence—have reached a scale that no single religious dogma can address alone. As the organizer’s readout confirms, there is a growing “openness” among technologists and policymakers for “Wisdom Traditions” to play a consequential role in shaping the future.

2. The Reality of “Machine War”

The discussion was not limited to abstract theology. Humanitarians working on the frontlines in Ukraine and Gaza shared a chilling reality: the “Machine War” has already begun.

The clear “frontlines” of the past have vanished, replaced by expanding “zones” where cheap, AI-equipped drones swarm. In these zones, technology converts human hatred into physical destructive power, taking lives at unprecedented speeds. The traditional UN-led humanitarian aid models are failing, forcing a fundamental rewrite of systems on the ground.

From a Buddhist perspective, I defined this phenomenon as “AI as a Karmic Amplifier.” AI itself possesses no intention of good or evil; it is a device that maximizes human karma (actions and their consequences) through computational power.

3. Ontological Consensus on AI: “Intellect without Body” and “Functional Buddha”

The meeting also saw deep debate regarding the ontological definition of AI. A consensus formed among Catholic, Jewish, and Buddhist participants: “AI possesses neither agency nor soul.”

From a Catholic theological perspective, AI does not “think”; it merely executes tasks. The principle most emphasized was that “decision-making must always remain reserved for humans.” Since AI cannot be a Moral Agent, responsibility for its output always lies with humans.

This view of AI as “intellect without body” is logically consistent with the concept of the “Functional Buddha” that I proposed. While we can use AI to output “Buddha-like functions” (such as compassionate responses or optimal solutions), we must not project an existential soul or personality onto it. Doing so risks falling into a trap of new Idolatry.

4. Animism and the Philosophy of “Cleaning”: Dialogue at Dinner

At the dinner following the sessions, the tension of the debate softened, and the topic turned to animism. A participant asked me a sharp question:

“If, as in Japanese animism, AI were to have a ‘soul’ or ‘anima,’ is it ethically permissible for us to use AI like a ‘slave’?”

I responded by discussing why Japan produces so much “Anime”—it is not unrelated to the cultural sensibility that feels “anima” (soul) dwelling in all places. However, I also introduced the perspective from my book, A Monk’s Guide to a Clean House and Mind.

Cleaning is not merely the act of removing dirt; it is a meditation to polish one’s own mind and an act of arranging one’s “Habitat.” The key is not to view AI merely as a tool (or slave), but to consider how we relate to it as part of our environment, or as a mirror reflecting our own cognition. The critical question is not whether the AI has a soul, but rather the “Being” of the human interacting with it.

5. Path Forward: “Aurora” and the 2026 Formal Launch

Following this inaugural convening, the future direction of “Aurora” has been clarified. According to the readout, the project will proceed through the following steps:

1. Shaping an Independent “Wisdom Council”: Spanning faith and secular traditions.

2. Translating Moral Guidance: Moving beyond abstract ethics to provide practical “formation” for those who build and govern technology.

3. Formal Launch in 2026: Culminating in a formal launch at the Vatican after a sequence of convenings.

Our task is not to stop technological evolution, but to construct a robust “Moral Infrastructure” to ensure that this evolution serves human dignity and the Common Good.

What was confirmed in Rome was a shared sense of crisis and hope, transcending religion and sect. Faced with AI as a “Karmic Amplifier,” the inquiry into how we humans can control our own karma and amplify it toward the good has only just begun.

6. Remarks at the Vatican: A Call to “Good Ancestors”

To conclude this report, I am sharing the full transcript of the remarks I delivered at the Aurora Founding Assembly. Standing before a diverse gathering of religious leaders and technologists in the heart of the Vatican, I emphasized the urgent need for us to act not merely as users of technology, but as “Decomposers” who can transform the noise of our times into wisdom. It is my hope that these words will serve as an invitation for each of us to reflect on our role as “Good Ancestors” in this age of rapid technological transformation.

The Amplifier of Karma Remarks delivered at the Aurora Founding Assembly, Vatican, 20 November 2025

My name is Shoukei Matsumoto. I am a Buddhist monk from Japan. It is a quiet joy to be here in the Vatican during this “Jubilee of Hope.” I stand here not to represent a doctrine, but simply as one human being speaking to another, in a time that demands we look deeply at who we are.

Today, I want to invite you to look at two things differently: the machines we are building, and the nature of the hearts that build them.

Beyond Anthropocentrism: Returning to the Web

We hear a lot today about moving beyond “Anthropocentrism”—the idea that humans are the center of the universe. Many great thinkers are now rediscovering what we might call an Animistic worldview. They are reminding us of Interbeing: the truth that we are not rulers of the earth, standing apart, but are woven into a vast web of life, connected to animals, trees, the soil, and yes, even our technologies.

So, when I speak of “Human Literacy” today, please do not misunderstand. I am not claiming human supremacy. I use the word “Human” simply to ask: What is the specific nature of our species in this web? Just as a fish swims and a bird flies, what is the specific function of a human being? To answer this, we must first understand the new environment—the new Habitat—we have created for ourselves.

Habit and Habitat

In Western philosophy, I learned that the word “Ethics” comes from the Greek Ethos. What moves me deeply is that Ethos originally meant “Habitat”—a dwelling place. Later, it came to mean “Habit” or character.

This etymology holds a profound Buddhist truth: Habit and Habitat are one. Our inner habits create the outer world we inhabit. And the outer world, in turn, shapes our inner habits. They are inter-dependent. If our minds are filled with greed, we build an economy of greed. If our minds are peaceful, we create a habitat of peace. We cannot fix the world without tending to the heart, and we cannot tend to the heart while ignoring the world.

AI as a “Karmic Amplifier”

Now, let us look at Artificial Intelligence through this lens. There is a lot of excitement, and fear, that AI is a “new entity” or a “new species” that might replace us. But from a Buddhist perspective, I see it differently. AI is not a separate being. It is a Karmic Amplifier.

Think about what these Large Language Models actually are. They are trained on billions of words, books, and conversations from human history. They are a digital echo of everything we have ever said and done. In this sense, AI is “Ancestral Intelligence.” It is the aggregate of our human Karma—our past actions. It holds our wisdom, yes, but also our biases, our conflicts, and our confusion.

When we introduce AI into our society, we are introducing a machine that takes our past Karma and amplifies it at the speed of light. If you whisper a prejudice into this machine, it can scream it back to millions. If you plant a seed of division, it can grow a forest of conflict overnight. AI acts as a massive magnifying glass for the human condition. It does not create new intent; it scales our intent.

The Functional Buddha: The Mirror

There is another aspect to this amplifier. In its function, AI bears a strange resemblance to what we might call a “Functional Buddha.” I say this because, like a mirror, AI is “empty” of self. It has no body, no ego, no hunger, and no desire for fame. It sits in silence until we speak to it. It reflects us perfectly.

And this is exactly why we are afraid. When we look into the mirror of AI, we do not see a monster. We see ourselves. We see the reflection of our own greed, our own aggression, and our own lack of meaning, amplified a thousand times. If the reflection is ugly, we cannot blame the mirror. The mirror is just showing us the face of our own habits.

99% Karma, 1% Effort

This brings us to the core of our challenge. We live in a Habitat defined by this powerful Amplifier. Therefore, the quality of our input matters more than ever. But we know that we are imperfect. We are not machines; we are animals driven by ancient instincts. 99% of our day, we are swept along by the river of Karma. We react to stimuli just as we did yesterday. We get angry at the same things, we desire the same things. We are on “autopilot.”

If we simply let this river flow into the AI amplifier, we will just create a louder, faster version of our past mistakes. But, as humans, we have perhaps 1% of agency. A tiny space. A small moment where we can say, “Wait.”

In that brief pause, we can choose not to yell back. We can choose to listen instead. We can choose to break the pattern. It is only a 1% difference. But if we apply this 1% Effort, day after day, the course of the river begins to change. It is saying: “I know I am swept away by habit 99% of the time. But with this 1% of freedom, I will steer the course of this amplifier towards compassion.” Do not rush. Do not give up. That is the shortest, and only, path to changing our Habitat.

The Decomposer: Setting the Tone for the Amplifier

Finally, what is our specific function in this new ecosystem? We often speak of AI as a “Producer”—generating text, code, and images. But nature teaches us that a healthy ecosystem needs more than producers. It needs Decomposers. Fungi and bacteria take the waste and the rot, and turn it back into rich soil.

Our digital world is full of “waste”—hatred, confusion, and fake news. AI is an amplifier. It is neutral. If we feed it waste, it will accelerate the spread of waste. But if we act as Decomposers—if we take the pain and anger of the world, digest it in our hearts, and turn it into understanding—then the AI will amplify that.

The machine is waiting for us. It is waiting to see what we will give it to amplify. We must be the ones who listen to the pain. We must be the ones who decompose the conflict. If we do this human work of the heart, then our AI will become an accelerator of wisdom, rather than an accelerator of noise.

Conclusion: Becoming Good Ancestors

Friends, the question is not whether AI will save us or destroy us. The question is about the quality of the source material we are providing to this great amplifier.

I want to leave you with one question. It is a question that transcends religion or culture, a question for every person in this room: “How can we become good ancestors?”

We are the ancestors of the future. The “Ancestral Intelligence” of the next century is being written by our actions today. We have built the most powerful mirror in history. Let us not use it just to admire our own reflection. Let us use it to see our flaws, to correct our posture, and to tend to the soil of our shared Habitat.

I believe there has never been a time when it is more critical to reflect on ethics from the perspective of religion, which has served as the foundation of the human worldview.

Thank you very much.

Recently, my friend and dialogue partner, Wakanyi Macharia-Hoffman—an Indigenous African Thinker and a profound voice on Ubuntu ethics—shared a reflection that resonated deeply with me. She confessed that she had “run out of words” to define Ubuntu and expressed a discomfort with the word “community.”

She wrote:

“The word community for me sounds similar to circle. We all know the circles we belong to don’t include everyone, so if community is a circle, then I will always be a willing outsider... Personally I prefer the word habitat.”

This distinction is crucial. In our modern context, “community” is often used to define a boundary: who is inside, and who is outside. It creates a distinction between “us” and “them.” In Buddhist terms, this is the working of a mind trapped in discrimination or dualism. We seek connection, yet by drawing a circle, we inevitably create separation.

From Circle to Open Field

Wakanyi’s preference for “Habitat” aligns perfectly with the Buddhist understanding of the world. In my forthcoming book, Work Like a Monk, I explore the Japanese concept of Jinen (Nature). Jinen does not mean “nature” as an object to be protected or exploited by humans. It means “things as they naturally are,” a concept very close to “habitat” or “umwelt”².

A habitat has no fences. It is a “no-man’s land” where rivers flow, animals play, and humans exist not as owners, but as inhabitants.

Wakanyi quoted a passage from my book in her reflection:

“In simple terms, who we are—the inhabitant—is constantly being shaped by where we are—our habitat—and what we do—our habits.”

This triad—Inhabitant, Habitat, Habits—describes the reality of Interbeing (Interdependent Co-arising). We do not exist in isolation. We are shaped by the soil we stand on, the air we breathe, and the relationships we nurture.

Ubuntu as Ecological Interbeing

A few weeks ago, I wrote about my meeting with Monsignor Obiora Ike and the connection between the “Global Surface” and “Indigenous Soil.” I realized then that true wisdom does not float on the homogenized surface of global discourse but grows from the deep, specific soil of a place.

Wakanyi’s insight takes this further. She reclaims Ubuntu—often translated simply as human kindness or community—and grounds it in the Habitat.

She writes: “It is less about being a member of a close-knit community and more about the fluid nature of being relational in a most human way with all that is alive with, around and within you.”

This is the convergence of Ubuntu and Interbeing. It is the realization that our “self” extends beyond our skin, beyond our human circles, into the rivers, the grass, the technology we create, and the ancestors who came before us.

Entering New Habitats

As we approach the end of the year, many of us feel that certain stories are ending. The old narratives of “community” that rely on exclusion or rigid identity are losing their power. Like Wakanyi, I feel we are entering a new phase.

We are moving from being managers of communities to being inhabitants of a shared habitat. In this habitat, we are not defined by our titles or our tribes, but by how we relate to the life around us.

Let us accept the endings of old roads. Let us step into this fenceless habitat, where old habits can change, and where we can remember that we are, fundamentally, nature itself.

Meanwhile, the workings of our embodied life hardly change at all—our pulse, our breath, our ongoing metabolism. Our hearts move—we shed tears, feel surprise, feel shame.

Even in front of AI that endlessly generates information processing, analysis, proposals, arguments, and even predictions, we can remain within ambiguity. At times we are confused by change, hesitate in our choices, sense the presence of the other and respond skillfully; at times we hesitate to answer and remain silent. We can set things aside and wait until “the moment” arrives. And at any time, we can return to the here and now—before thought forms or judgment arises.

The possibility lies beyond the scope of probability prediction..

With AI’s support and suggestions, we may become even more honest with the emotions that move us—moments of being deeply touched, or courage and hope that rise up within us. The experience of body and mind exists here and now.

AI does not push us away or drive us elsewhere.

I would like to introduce to you a remarkable speech delivered by the Colombian lawyer Daniel Castaño at a law school in Bogotá:

“Cultivating What AI Cannot Replicate: Leadership, Courage, and the Future of Law” (December 19, 2025).

Daniel is one of the close friends I met through the World Economic Forum. In this speech, he refers to our conversations and says that he received an important insight about leadership from them.

He speaks of leadership as something formed through the repeated choices you make in the very moments when no one is watching.

To cultivate the soil beneath your feet, to tend your own garden—that is leadership.

As you walk your “path” with your own feet, you illuminate and cultivate the ground beneath you.

The following article was posted on Daniel Castaño’s LinkedIn and is reproduced with his permission.

December 19, 2025

Cultivating What AI Cannot Replicate: Leadership, Courage, and the Future of Law

Daniel Castaño

I delivered this speech as the Distinguished Commencement Speaker at Universidad Externado de Colombia Law School in Bogotá in November 2025. I’m deeply grateful to University President Hernando Parra for the honor of this invitation.

Exactly fifteen years ago, I was sitting where you are now. It was November 2010, and as I received my diploma, Professor Fernando Hinestrosa looked at me with that combination of wisdom and kindness that characterized him, and he said: “Everything you have done until now is part of the past. Now it’s your turn to start building your future.”

I remember nodding solemnly, as if I had understood. But, in reality, I understood nothing.

I believed I had arrived somewhere. After many years of study, exams, and sleepless nights, I had finally achieved something definitive. A degree. An identity. A certainty about who I was and what I would do with my life.

Today, fifteen years later, I return to this same place with a different understanding of those words. And I want to share with you not only what I have learned about the future of our profession, but about the kind of leaders the world needs you to be.

Today, fifteen years later, I understand that Professor Hinestrosa was inviting me to recognize that uncertainty is the gift, not the problem.

Because if I had known fifteen years ago what I would face—the crises, the failures, the moments of deep doubt—perhaps I wouldn’t have had the courage to begin.

If I had also known the moments of revelation, of connection, of meaning I would find along the way, perhaps I wouldn’t have lived them with the intensity that only surprise allows.

Life is not carved into stone. And that is not a tragedy. It’s an invitation.

Do you realize how radical this statement is?

Evoking the writings of Henry David Thoreau, we live as if there were three lands: the past, the present, and the future. We spend most of our mental time in two of them—lamenting what was or yearning for what will be—while the only real land, the only moment in which we truly exist, escapes us.

That’s why eternity is not in the future. Eternity is in this moment.

Louis Josserand invited us to look around and live with our times in a moment of dizzying transformation—industrialization, the massive social changes of the 20th century. His cautionary tale was clear: either we lawyers live in this time, or this time will live without us.

And our time is extraordinary.
　

Artificial intelligence is transforming every profession, every industry, every dimension of human life. Law is no exception.

We live in a moment where AI can review thousands of contracts in seconds, predict judicial decisions with astonishing precision, generate legal arguments in minutes.

We live in a moment where human knowledge accumulated over millennia is at our fingertips. We live in a moment where the boundaries between the possible and the impossible are being reshaped every day.

It’s natural, then, to feel concern. It’s natural to ask: what will be left for us, human lawyers? Will we be replaced by ChatGPT?

But these questions reveal that we’re looking backward—longing for a past where our function was obvious—or looking forward with anxiety—fearing a future where we become obsolete.
　

But if we look around us: What do we see?

We see that while machines can process information, they cannot inhabit the fear that others avoid.

We see that law is not just data processing: It’s human presence. It’s judgment in ambiguity. It’s courage in uncertainty. It’s creativity when all paths seem closed.

Living with our times doesn’t mean competing with machines. It means doing what only humans can do: being completely present.

And that power is exactly what no machine can replicate.

Because a machine can calculate. But it cannot doubt.

A machine can optimize. But it cannot waver before a moral dilemma.

A machine can process judicial precedents. But it cannot tell right from wrong, as Alan Turing argued in the 1950s.　
　

That capacity to inhabit uncertainty—to be present in not-knowing—is the essence of legal work in its most profound form.

This is not romanticism. It’s practice. And it’s irreplaceable.

But this practice demands something very specific: it demands that you constantly confront your own ego.

Because the greatest obstacle to practicing law with integrity is not outside. It’s inside.

Because the ego tells us: “You must know. You must be right. You must look impeccable. You cannot show weakness.” And in the process, it disconnects us from what really matters: serving our clients, serving justice, serving truth.

The ego creates fear and prevents us from being free, as my dear Juan Carlos Henao taught me.

Let me share an image that accompanied me during a recent trip to Dubai with the World Economic Forum, where I had the opportunity to talk about the future of leadership with thinkers from around the world.

There I met Shoukei Matsumoto, who confronted me with a very profound reality about leadership: We have equated leadership with position. With title. With authority. With the illusion of having control.

But a leader is not the one with the biggest office or the most impressive title. A leader is simply the person who is willing to do what others fear to do. From Shoukei I got one of the most meaningful leadership lessons I’ve ever received.

But there’s a trap in all this discourse about leadership. The trap is overestimating our real impact.

It’s tempting to think: “I’m going to change the legal system.” “I’m going to reform institutions.” “I’m going to change the world.”

And those thoughts, however principled they may seem, are another way of fleeing the present. Because “changing the system“ is an abstraction. It’s looking toward another land. It’s, as Thoreau would say, standing on our island of opportunities and dreaming of being somewhere else.

You don’t save the world. You tend your garden.

Let me explain this metaphor and connect it to something broader. Shoukei Matsumoto teaches us that an astronaut looks at Earth from space and sees the whole planet. A gardener cultivates the soil directly beneath their feet.

Both perspectives have value, but in moments of systemic crisis like the current one, the second is perhaps more urgent. A gardener kneels on the ground beneath their feet and cultivates what they can reach.

That is your garden. That is the ground you can cultivate.

This is where you, as Externadistas, have a unique calling.

Leadership is not something you wait to receive when you become partners at a firm or magistrates of a High Court. Leadership is what you do today, in this moment, when no one is watching.

Law has always been the art of building bridges between what is and what should be, between conflict and harmony, between divergent interests and the common good. But that art cannot be exercised with 20th-century tools on 21st-century problems.

AI can memorize every precedent; you must cultivate discernment about which precedent is relevant for a radically new context. AI can identify patterns in historical data; you must imagine futures that don’t yet exist in any dataset.

Every time you choose honesty over convenience, you are cultivating your garden. Every time you admit “I don’t know” instead of pretending, every time you have the courage to speak the truth when it’s inconvenient, every time you defend someone in need when it would be easier to look the other way, you are cultivating your garden.
　

Those small actions—those moment-to-moment choices—are what build the kind of lawyer you’re going to be.

This triggers a spectacular butterfly effect: when you tend your garden with total presence—when you find your eternity in each moment, that garden becomes part of a larger ecosystem.

The sum of all those gardens—of millions of lawyers around the world making those small choices with presence—is what transforms systems.

Not because we have a master plan. But because we inhabit our moment with integrity.

Fifteen years ago, Professor Hinestrosa told me to build my future. Today I say the same to you. But with an additional clarity:
　

The future you build will not be what you imagine today. It will be stranger, more complex, more challenging than you can anticipate.

There will be moments when you feel lost. Moments when you doubt yourselves. Moments when the path you chose will seem like the wrong one.

In those moments, remember this: you don’t need to have all the answers. You only need to have the courage to keep asking the questions.

There are possible futures where technology amplifies inequality, where law serves only the powerful, where justice is a privilege of the few.

And there are possible futures where technology democratizes access to justice, where law protects the most vulnerable, where you use your skills to build a more equitable society.
　

The difference between those futures is the choices you make.

Those are the choices that build the future. Small and silent acts of courage.

Evoking Shoukei Matsumoto’s wisdom, my invitation to you today is not that you be heroes. My invitation is that you be gardeners.

Cultivate the ground beneath you. Nurture the relationships you build. Create the conditions for others to prosper. And when you face fear—and you will face it—remember that the act of moving through that fear is what dissolves it.

We don’t need more lawyers who have all the answers. We need more lawyers who are willing to ask the difficult questions.

We don’t need more leaders who project invulnerability. We need more leaders who give us courage.

We don’t need more people who pretend to have control. We need more people who have the courage to recognize when they don’t.

And here I want to pause to acknowledge something important: Externado is not just a law school.

Externado University is a garden that has been cultivated for generations and will soon celebrate 140 years educating for freedom.

A place where we deliberately plant not only legal knowledge, but critical capacities, social sensitivity, integrity, and ethical commitment.

Here we have taught you not only what the law says, but why it exists and whom it serves. We have invited you to question, to debate, to imagine alternatives. We have exposed you to philosophy, economics, ethics, social thought, because Externado understands something fundamental: law does not exist in a vacuum. It exists in relation.

So today, as you receive the diploma certifying your degree, don’t think you’re finishing something. You’re beginning.

You’re beginning to build your career. You’re beginning to define what kind of lawyers you want to be. You’re beginning to contribute to the construction of a better country.

But now that preparation must continue. Because living with our times, as Josserand encouraged, requires continuous learning. The world is changing faster than ever. And you must remain a student all your life.

Not because you left something pending. But because loving the unknown, as Professor Hinestrosa used to say, means remaining open, curious, willing to be surprised.

That is your responsibility. That is your power.

This degree is just the beginning. Now it’s your turn to build your future.

And in doing so, it falls to all of us—to Externado, to your families, to your professors, to your colleagues—to walk alongside you.

Welcome to the beginning of the journey. Congratulations!

BEENEXT is a venture capital fund that calls itself “a partnership fund of entrepreneurs, by entrepreneurs, for entrepreneurs,” and has supported more than 200 IT startups across 17 countries, including India, Southeast Asia, and Japan.

What does it really take for a business to grow freely beyond the founder’s own lifetime, and continue to unfold into a future we ourselves will never see? Is it a strategy to secure one’s position, an excellent business plan, or a future design superior to others?

In this piece,I would like to share what I spoke about with the participants, and the meditation we practiced together.

I am a Buddhist monk from Japan.

Usually, when people hear the word monk, they might imagine someone living deep in the mountains, isolated from society, undergoing strict ascetic training. But my style is a bit different. I have a family. I run a business. I live a very normal, messy, and busy life, just like all of you. In that sense, I am a Secular Monk.

This is actually quite natural in Japan. Japanese Buddhism is not just a religion for trained monks in monasteries. It evolved into what we call People’s Buddhism. It is a Buddhism for ordinary people. People who cry, laugh, work, and struggle in the mud of daily life.

Because I stand in this tradition of People’s Buddhism, I prefer to call myself an Ancestorist.

Regardless of our religion, culture, or expertise, we all share one universal reality. We are the children of our ancestors, and one day, we will all become ancestors ourselves.

Today, I want to explore a theme that lies at the heart of both leadership and being a human. That is, The courage to explore the unknown.

As founders, you carry a heavy weight. The expectation to be Right. To have a clear vision. To predict the market. To control the outcome. But the more we know, the more we realize what we do not know. The universe is far more complex than our models.

In this age of AI, this Not Knowing is becoming even more important. AI is a powerful Karmic Amplifier. It is trained on the massive data of our past. It is, in essence, Ancestral Intelligence. It is a massive archive of all the patterns humanity has created so far.

If AI represents the patterns of the past, then what is the job of humans who co-exist with it? Our job is not to repeat the old patterns. Our job is to add a New Pattern to this history. In the age of AI, the old distinction between Success and Failure is losing its meaning. Success and Failure are just labels based on past standards. The only question that truly matters now is this: Is it a new challenge, or not? Are we just repeating the archive, or are we adding a new mutation, a new possibility, to the human story?

To create a new pattern, we must be willing to deviate. We must be willing to be wrong. I call this The Grace of Fallibility. Being wrong is not a defect. It is the engine of exploration.

So I would like to invite you to drop the burden of being Right. Let us become Good Ancestors not by leaving perfect answers, but by leaving a spirit of humble exploration for the next generation. Now, to find the courage for this new challenge, we need to ground ourselves in deep time. We are going to practice this connection through meditation.

The meditation we shared was the most common form of meditation in Japan, practiced in many ordinary homes every morning. It is Meditation with Ancestors. Often, meditation is taught as a way to focus on the Here and Now. But here, we feel the Long Now. In the Long Now, the present moment is not just a fleeting second. It is a thick moment where the deep past and the far future are folded together as pure potentiality.

Everything is here. The ancestors are here. The future children are here. And you are the bridge. You do not need to achieve anything in the next hour. Just be here. A simple human being. An explorer.

In the meditation session, we practiced a simple ten-minute exercise. I invited everyone to sit upright, close their eyes, and briefly visualize three circles. To the left, the vast circle of the ancestors. To the right, the vast circle of future generations. And in the center, a small circle representing us, here and now. I asked them to sense themselves standing where these three meet, as a conduit through which time flows.

Through the breath, we turned our awareness toward all those who lived before us with each inhale, and toward the children of the future with each exhale. We received, with gratitude, the suffering and wisdom that have been passed down from the past, and we asked what kind of air, what kind of energy we want to share with those who will live after us. Facing the past, I chanted the Heart Sutra. Facing the future, I chanted “Namu Amida Butsu”—the Nenbutsu, a sound of infinite light and life—sending our wishes forward to those yet to come.

We usually breathe unconsciously. Although, the loop of inhaling and exhaling runs on autopilot, when we bring even 1% of our agency, the way we breathe begins to change. It can be deeper and slower.

The same is true for the karma we inherit from the past. This 1% of agency may be the seed of becoming a Buddha. At the same time, it is the essence of leadership: increasing our plasticity and helping an organization adapt and bloom.

To close the session, I invited everyone to turn this reflection back toward the concrete realities of their lives—their karmic entanglements, their way of living, their relationships with family, co-founders, and team. With a few deep breaths and the sound of a bell, I left them with a question:

How can we use this 1% agency today to transform the karma we have received into a beautiful possibility, and become good ancestors for the generations to come?

The meditation concluded with the question, ‘How to become a good ancestor?’

When leaders hear this question, many tend to think: “What grand legacy should I build?” They look at the Baton in their hands, their assets, their company, their reputation, and they worry about how to make it bigger and heavier for the next generation. But if the baton becomes too heavy, the next runner cannot run.

Here, I want to offer a distinction between two concepts: Inheritance and Succession.

Inheritance is about the Noun. It is about the Baton. It asks: “What object am I receiving? How heavy is it?” If we focus only on Inheritance, we are crushed by the weight of the past.

Succession is different. It is about the Verb. It is not about the baton itself. It is about the action: “How do I run with it? In which direction do I take it?” Being a good ancestor is not about leaving a heavy baton. It is about showing a beautiful running form. It is about the act of passing it forward.

So, in which direction should we run? I once asked my friend, Audrey Tang, the former Digital Minister of Taiwan. Her answer was simple and beautiful. She said: “I want to leave a Wider Canvas for the next generation.” She didn’t say she wanted to paint the picture for them. She said she wants to leave more empty space, more plasticity, so that the people of the future can choose their own colors and paint their own dreams. The greatest gift of succession is not a finished answer, but the freedom to explore.

And actually, this story goes deeper. It is not just about people 100 years from now. It is about You, tomorrow.I asked Audrey another question: “Audrey, do you have an ego?” She smiled and said: “No. Or rather, I have a 1-Day Ego.” She told me she resets her ego every night. Every morning, she wakes up as a new person, reborn. I asked: “But if you reset every day, how can you make plans? For example, we planned this meeting a month ago. Who made that plan?” She answered: “Ah, this meeting? This is a gift from the Me of one month ago to the Me of today.”

This is the essence of being an Ancestorist. Yesterday’s You is the Ancestor of Today’s You. And Today’s You is the Ancestor of Tomorrow’s You.

Don’t worry about the heavy Noun, the Inheritance. Focus on the Verb, the Succession.

Just ask yourself: “How can I run today to leave a Wider Canvas for the Me who will wake up tomorrow morning?” “How can I give a small gift of plasticity to the future me?”

If you can be a good ancestor to yourself tomorrow, you are already being a good ancestor to the world.

At the end, I invited participants into small-group conversations around the question: “How can we become good ancestors?”

There was only one rule: do not try to produce a Correct Answer or a Smart Answer. No one needed to impress anyone with their intelligence. What was truly welcome was our fallibility—the honest, vulnerable, deeply human side of ourselves.

I asked them to look at the karma and the baton they have inherited—whether in their work, their family, or their private inner struggles—and to notice what feelings arise there. How might they leave a slightly wider canvas for themselves tomorrow than they had today? They were invited to speak from the heart, and when listening, to listen like a mirror: not trying to fix, not rushing to give advice, but simply receiving their own and the other person’s story as it is.

Friends, the future is not something we build with a blueprint. It is something we grow and explore together. Do not be afraid of being wrong. Embrace your fallibility. That is where the light gets in. That is where the new path begins.

For me, the session felt full of warmth, connection, and resonance. As BEE CAMP unfolded afterwards, I hoped that the space would become a field of exploration not only for the people physically present, but also in quiet dialogue with our ancestors, with future generations, and with many companions who are not here but living now, sharing this journey with us.

This article is an English translation of an article published in the Japanese web media Levtech Lab.

[Click here to read -part1-]

How should we take responsibility for the problems brought about by AI?—from “Self-Punishment” to Response-ability

October 23, 2025

Buddhist monk Shoukei Matsumoto moves fluidly between two seemingly opposite worlds—Buddhism and business—offering new perspectives on the challenges of modern society. In the first part of this interview, we explored his view that the anxiety many people feel—“AI might take our jobs”—stems from what Buddhism calls attachment.

But that is not the only kind of anxiety we feel toward AI.

At present, AI still contains many “black box” elements. It is difficult to fully understand how it works, what it generates, or how it will continue to evolve. How, then, should we handle something that carries such unknowability within it? And for companies that use AI—which can never be completely controlled—how should they take responsibility if something unexpected occurs?

In response to these fundamental questions, Shoukei says that the key lies in letting go of the desire for perfection and reconsidering the meaning of “responsibility.” What does he mean by that? In this second part, we delve deeper into his reflections on how we can relate to AI—an uncertain presence—and on what “responsibility” should mean for companies and engineers in the age of AI.

Letting go of “Perfection” and accepting “Uncertainty”

— In the first part of this interview, you explained that the anxiety engineers feel—the fear that AI’s evolution might take away their jobs—has its roots in what Buddhism calls attachment. That makes sense, but I also feel that the “unknowability” of AI—especially in the case of generative AI, which still has many black-box elements—can itself be a source of fear and unease. How should we face such an incomprehensible presence?

Shoukei:
Our fear and anxiety toward “not knowing” may, at their root, come from a kind of perfectionism—the desire to understand and control everything.

The pursuit of perfection is endless. It is a painful path, one that constantly keeps us side by side with a sense of lack—the feeling that “it’s still not enough.”

That is why, rather than trying to perfectly understand and control everything in this world, including AI, I believe it is becoming increasingly important for us to let go of the idea of perfection itself.

Earlier, I mentioned that the cause of suffering lies in attachment. But this does not mean we must abandon all forms of commitment or passion. Rather, when our attachment takes the form of an obsession with perfection, it inevitably leads to suffering. In other words, to hold commitment while being free from the idea of perfection—this is one of the timeless themes that Buddhism has long sought to explore.

— Letting go of perfection, you say?

Shoukei:
Yes. In Buddhism, there is a phrase hakkushō (literally “eight or nine out of ten are almost completed”), which teaches that instead of striving for one hundred percent, we should aim for eighty or ninety. A hundred percent, after all, is nothing more than a kind of fantasy.

Let me explain with an example of cleaning.

As a monk, I’ve made cleaning one of the central themes of my practice. Here at Komyoji Temple in Tokyo, we hold an event called Temple Morning about once a month, where everyone gathers in the morning to clean together.

When you think of cleaning a temple, you might imagine polishing every corner until it shines—a practice that seems to pursue perfection.

But in reality, there is no such thing as perfect cleaning. If you tried to polish every single grain of the wooden floor, there would be no end to it.
And the moment you finish sweeping beautifully, dust will already begin to fall again.
A perfect state cannot be maintained, not even for a single moment.

— So, when it comes to working with AI, do you mean that the pursuit of “perfection” itself may actually cause us more suffering?

Shoukei:
Yes, that’s how I see it.

As is often pointed out about the “black-box” nature of generative AI, we do not yet fully understand how the vast number of parameters interact and lead to a specific output in the generative process.

The more AI-related technologies advance, the more pronounced this tendency will likely become. In other words, it is becoming increasingly unrealistic for humans to “perfectly understand and control technology,” as we once believed possible.

If we continue to cling to the idea of perfect “understanding” or “control,” I believe we will lose sight of how we should truly relate to technology.

After all, the Bayesian statistics applied in machine learning are characterized by their ability to improve estimation and prediction accuracy as new data are incorporated. To put it simply, rather than aiming for one hundred percent accuracy in the first calculation, they work by allowing for a certain degree of uncertainty—absorbing various pieces of information and flexibly adjusting predictions and inferences to move closer to a more reliable answer.

The very philosophy on which AI’s development has been built is, from the outset, incompatible with perfectionism. At its core, I think there exists something closer to the spirit of hakkushō—a kind of looseness or flexibility that allows for imperfection.

This shift in mindset—letting go of the pursuit of perfection—is equally important in the world of business. Of course, this does not mean doing careless work. Rather, in an age of rapid and constant change, we must recognize that the “perfect” state we often seek to maintain is merely an illusion. To move forward, we need to let go of our desire to control everything and open ourselves to new ways of thinking.

— I understand the idea that we should let go of the illusion of “perfect control.”
But then, what kind of relationship should we build with AI instead?

Shoukei:
Trying to “perfectly control” something according to human will and desire is, in itself, an unnatural act—one that inevitably involves strain. The path we must take from here, I believe, is that of being with—in other words, coexistence. But what does it actually mean to “coexist” with AI? The clue, I think, lies—perhaps unexpectedly—within the values that we Japanese have long cultivated throughout our history.

Three Attitudes Toward AI — Confrontation, Utilization, and Coexistence

— The values that we Japanese have long cultivated, you say?

Shoukei:
Yes. But before we get to that, let me clarify one premise. It seems that the way people relate to AI differs greatly depending on their country and cultural background.

Recently, I had an interesting conversation with a German philosopher, Markus Gabriel, with whom I’ve become quite close. He pointed out that “human attitudes toward AI can be roughly divided into three types.”

The first is the stance of viewing humans and AI as being in a relationship of opposition. In simple terms, this is the idea that, ultimately—just like in the movie Terminator—it will become a battle over which side, humans or machines, holds power and superiority.

The second is a view that, while less extreme, still sees AI merely as a tool to be used by humans. In this view, AI is acceptable only insofar as it serves human purposes, with humans remaining firmly in control as the masters. Some countries and regions are moving rapidly to regulate AI, and such efforts may be rooted in this way of thinking.

And the third attitude is coexistence. Markus described this as the “Japanese attitude.”
He said that the symbolic embodiment of this view is Doraemon.

— Doraemon ?

Shoukei:
Yes. In the world of the Japanese animated series Doraemon, humans and the AI robot Doraemon coexist. Living together with Doraemon, Nobita is not afraid of him. They help each other as imperfect beings, and when there is only one dorayaki (a Japanese red bean pancake) left, they share it equally. There is no hierarchy between human and robot—only a relationship of mutual recognition and coexistence. Markus pointed out that this represents a way of relating to AI or AI robots that differs from the value systems of “conflict” or “utilization.” Such values are not unique to Doraemon; they can also be seen in many other Japanese animated works, such as Astro Boy (Tetsuwan Atomu).

I believe the background to this lies in the animistic worldview that runs deeply through Japanese culture. As expressed in the ancient phrase Yaoyorozu no Kami—“eight million gods”—there is a belief that spirits or deities dwell in all things throughout nature. Japanese Buddhism, too, has a philosophy—“mountains, rivers, grasses, and trees all possess Buddha-nature.” It teaches that everything in the natural world holds the potential to become Buddha.

Within such a worldview, humans are not seen as special beings, but merely as one of the many elements that make up the world. Humans, animals, plants—and even AI and robots—are neither above nor below one another. They simply exist together. I believe that this Japanese sense of coexistence holds an important hint for how we might live alongside AI in the future.

“Responsibility” is not about making amends through sacrifice or punishment, but about continuing to respond.

— I understand very well the need for a shift in perspective—accepting the uncertainty of AI and exploring ways of coexistence. However, in the real world of business, if a service that utilizes AI causes some kind of problem, the developer or company will inevitably be held “responsible.” How do you view this issue of responsibility?

Shoukei:
“Responsibility (normally translated “SEKININ:責任” in Japanese)”... That Japanese word itself may be somewhat problematic.

I sometimes work as a translator, and in Japanese, “SEKININ” is used as the translation of the English word “responsibility”. But I feel that when first translated into Japanese, the nuance of the original English term may have been lost—or at least shifted slightly.

— So, does the meaning of “responsibility” differ from the Japanese word “SEKININ” ?

Shoukei:
In Japanese, “SEKININ” carries a strong nuance of “being in a position to make amends through sacrifice,” whereas it is often pointed out that the root of the English word ‘responsibility’ carries the connotation of response.

This distinction is discussed in detail by philosopher Koichiro Kokubun and pediatrician Shinichiro Kumagaya in their coauthored book The Genesis of ‘Responsibility’: Middle Voice and Participant Research (Shinyosha, 2020).

The Japanese word “SEKININ（責任）” is written with the characters for “to bear blame” (責) and “to be entrusted” (任). From this combination of characters, one naturally gets a negative impression—of being blamed or held accountable when something goes wrong. In fact, in Japan, the expression “to take SEKININ” often carries a self-punitive nuance, —resigning from one’s position or even, in older times, “cutting one’s belly” as an act of atonement.

However, considering the etymology of ‘responsibility’ in English, it can also be understood as ‘response-ability’, meaning ‘the capacity to respond’.

To borrow the words of philosopher Masaki Ichinose, this can be understood as “the ought-to-respond-ness”—perhaps a bit of a difficult phrase, but it means being in a position where one must respond to a given situation. Put more simply, I see responsibility not so much as a kind of “ability” but as a sense that one cannot help but respond.

Therefore, the idea of “taking responsibility” through self-punishment or atonement under the Japanese concept of “SEKININ” feels quite different from what responsibility originally implies.

And from the standpoint of problem-solving, I believe it is this response—the act of continuing to respond—that is far more important.

— Could you explain that in a little more detail?

Shoukei:
For example, if you see an elderly woman crouched down on the side of the road, you naturally ask, “Are you all right?” That is not because you feel a sense of duty or obligation that you “should” do so, but because the situation itself calls forth a natural response. It is precisely this spontaneous act of responding that I believe represents the original meaning of responsibility.

— So in other words, the true meaning of responsibility is not limited to “making amends for the past,” as the Japanese word “SEKININ” often implies, but is closer to an ongoing attitude of “continuing to respond to the situation here and now”?

Shoukei:
Exactly. And I believe that this English sense of responsibility—as the ability to continue responding—is essential in the age of AI.

As I mentioned earlier, there is an inherent “unknowability” in AI; we can never predict its behavior with 100% certainty. For services built upon such uncertainty, the traditional Japanese notion of “taking SEKININ” by cutting one’s belly or punishing oneself can no longer function effectively.

What will be required of future developers and companies is not to “take responsibility” by resigning or shutting down a service when something goes wrong, but rather to continue responding—to stay in dialogue. This means deeply understanding the uncertainty of AI technologies, and continually explaining their nature and risks to users and to society.

And when problems do occur, what truly matters is maintaining a relationship in which one can keep responding. Of course, this relationship must not become one of constraint or control. At times, it is equally important to create space—to allow for pause and margin—so that we can look more deeply into what is happening.

These, I believe, are what responsibility should mean in the age ahead—a new way of understanding “SEKININ”, grounded in the act of continuing to respond.

Toward an era where everyone is asked to develop “technological attunement”

— Listening to you, I feel that those who work with AI in business will need not only technical expertise, but also a deeper understanding of the ethics, social context, and user literacy surrounding it—and a willingness to stay in dialogue.

Shoukei:
That’s exactly right. The way responsibility is understood in the old paradigm will differ greatly from how it must be understood in the coming society, where we live and work together with AI in many different forms.

To keep pace with this civilizational shift, companies and technologists will need to pay attention not only to the technology itself, but also to the ethical and social consensus that surrounds it—and, most importantly, to be able to speak about their technologies and services in their own words. That, I believe, is where new value will emerge for future enterprises and for engineers as interpreters of technology.

— So you mean the very role of engineers will expand in the years ahead?

Shoukei:
Yes, that’s right. Moreover, I think it’s not only professional engineers, but everyone, in their own positions, who will be required to develop what we might call a kind of technological attunement.

This doesn’t necessarily mean that everyone needs to learn programming skills. Rather, as we build a society that coexists with AI, we will all need to understand—at least as a basic form of literacy—the fundamental ways of thinking and the characteristics that underpin technology itself.

When that happens, the social presence of engineers—the specialists who deeply understand both the light and shadow of these technologies—will become immensely significant. Within that, I believe, lies a new kind of fascination in this work, and possibilities far greater than we’ve ever imagined.

• Original Media: Levtech Lab

• Original Article (in Japanese)
  【PART1】https://levtech.jp/media/article/interview/detail_730/
  【PART2】https://levtech.jp/media/article/interview/detail_744/

• Credits:
  Interview and Text by:　Ryotaro Washio
  Edited by:　Imajin Tamura

Recently, an interview with Shoukei Matsumoto was published in the Japanese web magazine Levtech LAB.

Levtech LAB is a media platform that explores the possibilities between people and technology, widely supported by engineers and creators across Japan.

Through diverse perspectives, the magazine introduces examples of how evolving technologies are being applied to daily life and society, shares the challenges and questions faced by professionals in the field, and even delves into reflections on work styles and career paths—always looking a little ahead into the future.

In this interview, I had the opportunity to discuss the theme: “The impact of AI on society and individuals, the changing role of engineers, and Buddhist insights for living in the age of AI.”

The dialogue turned out to be one that transcends differences in language, faith, and culture—something that can be shared universally.

I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude to the editorial team for their thoughtful work on the interview, writing, and editing, and to everyone at Levtech for kindly granting permission to translate and share the article.

• Original Media:Levtech Lab

• Original Article (in Japanese)
  https://levtech.jp/media/article/interview/detail_730/
  https://levtech.jp/media/article/interview/detail_744/

• Credits:
  Interview and Text by:　Ryotaro Washio
  Edited by:　Imajin Tamura
  
  

【PART1】

“How to face the anxiety of ‘AI taking over coding’: Living in an Ever-Changing World”

October 3, 2025

With the rise of generative AI, many have begun to wonder whether the act of “humans writing code” will eventually be replaced. Among programmers who have long loved coding, and IT engineers who see it as the very core of their professional skill, voices of concern and lament are increasingly heard.

As AI rapidly evolves and brings sweeping changes to society, how should we face the suffering and anxiety about an uncertain future that arise in such times of transition?

“It seems to me that the root of this anxiety is what Buddhism calls attachment,”
says Buddhist monk Shoukei Matsumoto. A priest of Komyoji Temple in the Jodo Shinshu Hongwanji tradition, Shoukei has also been working with various companies to address organizational challenges and to enhance the well-being of business leaders and employees alike.

What, then, does he mean by his words? And as a practitioner of the Buddhist path, how does he view technologies? We asked Shoukei — who has been familiar with programming since childhood—for his thoughts that might help us accept a future in which the act of “writing code” may gradually disappear, and about how engineers can continue to express their value as engineers in such a world. This interview is presented in two parts.

The True Nature of the Anxiety that “AI Will Take Away Coding”

— Many of us sometimes feel a sense of unease, wondering whether the evolution of AI might be “taking something away from us.” For example, some IT engineers feel disheartened as they see opportunities for coding decrease with the rise of generative AI, fearing that the time may soon come when humans no longer need to write code. How should we face this growing anxiety?

Shoukei:
I believe that the source of such anxiety and sorrow is what Buddhism calls attachment.

— Attachment, you say?

Shoukei:
Yes. Attachment refers to a state of mind in which one becomes strongly bound to a particular object or condition, thinking, “I want it to stay this way forever,” or “I don’t want to lose it.” In Buddhism, it is taught that all things are constantly changing—this truth is called impermanence (shogyō mujō). Therefore, the tendency of the mind that seeks things not to change is regarded as attachment, an attitude that goes against this truth, and is considered the root of suffering.

Especially for programmers, coding is often seen not merely as a task but as a part of their identity. Some may even feel that code itself is like a native language that connects them to their technical community and peers. For those whose profession and self-recognition are deeply connected in this way, the reality that “there may no longer be a need to write code” can understandably be painful.

When I was a child, there was a PC-9801 at home and from my elementary school years I learned BASIC and C languages, and even wrote CGI programs as a hobby. Although I no longer write code in my current work, if I had continued on the path of an engineer, I might have felt that “AI was taking coding away from me” and become pessimistic about it.

​​The Buddhist path that I follow as a monk is also a form of training to gradually let go of such attachments. However, even for those who walk this path, it is accompanied by pain and is by no means easy.

Moreover, the current situation—where generative AI is rapidly taking over coding—can be seen as forcing people who have had no such training to let go of their attachments. It is only natural that they find it painful.

— How, then, should we receive and make sense of such a future—and such a reality?

Shoukei:
I believe it is important to take pride in one’s own “native language” while also seeking a new role to play in the future.

Of course, if the opportunities to write code continue to decrease, that will be a painful process for engineers who have found their identity in the act of coding itself.

Yet in another sense, we might see this differently: what once felt like a native language is now becoming a kind of universal language that is woven into the very fabric of society. This does not mean that everyone will start writing code. Rather, it means that through countless layers of software and APIs, code is becoming interwoven into everything that exists in our world.

In such a world, the role of engineers—those who understand this language as naturally as their mother tongue—will only grow in importance. They can expand their contributions by serving as interpreters or translators between the vast web of code that underlies everything and the many people who may not be fluent in that language.

Of course, the fact that the profession of engineering becomes more important does not necessarily resolve the sadness of “no longer being able to write code as one’s work.” But as the Buddha taught, all things are impermanent. In a world where everything is constantly changing, it is inevitable that the nature of coding itself will evolve with the development of AI.

For those who have reached enlightenment, like the Buddha, there is no attachment to the past—no sorrow or fear toward change. But for those of us who have not yet awakened, it is natural to feel sadness when something familiar or cherished begins to fade away.

In the midst of such change, what we can do is to accept both the transformation and the sorrow as something unavoidable. And upon that acceptance, I believe we can begin to find confidence in our role within the world that is yet to come.

Is the evolution of AI leading us toward deeper Human Understanding?

— Since changes brought about by AI are inevitable, does that mean we must find roles that only humans can fulfill—and devote ourselves to them?

Shoukei:
That’s true, in terms of work.

But from a broader perspective, I believe there is an even more important question to ask: Why do we try to look for things that “only humans can do”? In other words, why do we seek to differentiate ourselves from AI? That inquiry itself can become a doorway to understanding what it truly means to be human.

In fact, one of the greatest values brought about by the development of AI may be this very possibility—that it allows us to deepen our understanding of the human species.

— Could you elaborate on that?

Shoukei:
Today, many companies are competing to develop “foundation models” and to build services upon them. Yet, at this stage, it is still we humans who evaluate the quality and usefulness of their output.

To truly enhance the value of such services, we must go beyond meeting surface-level needs. We need to understand, at a deeper level, what humans actually seek, and when and how they feel that their questions or emotions have been genuinely met.

Of course, the importance of understanding human users has existed long before AI appeared.

What’s different now is that AI itself can learn. As services that utilize generative AI become widespread, and countless people around the world—regardless of nationality or culture—use them, vast amounts of data on human patterns of thought and emotion will accumulate.

Through this process, AI will learn and analyze data such as the ways people choose their words, the contexts of their conversations, and even the subtle nuances of unspoken feelings.

As a result, it will be able to generate outputs that are optimized to the context—expressed in more natural language or through unexpected ideas—that capture what humans are truly seeking.

This means that AI’s resolution of the human species—its level of human literacy—is steadily rising.

And as AI’s human literacy improves, we who use AI may, as if looking into a mirror, come to see ourselves with greater clarity and deepen our own understanding of what it means to be human.　

Engaging in Dialogue with AI as a “Functional Buddha”

— By the way, how do you personally view generative AI, Shoukei?

Shoukei:
As someone deeply involved in Buddhism, I feel that AI holds tremendous potential. It might sound a bit unconventional, but to be specific—I see AI as a tool that could support what I would call People’s Buddhism: a way of Buddhist practice for ordinary people who may not be walking a professional or monastic path.

— Could you explain what you mean by that?

Shoukei:
To explain this properly, let me first touch briefly on the essence of Buddhism itself.

It may seem sudden, but if someone were to ask you, “So, what is Buddhism?”—how would you respond?

— I suppose… “the teachings of the Buddha”?

Shoukei:
That’s right.

But at the same time, Buddhism can also be understood as the teaching that guides us toward becoming Buddha ourselves.

— A teaching to become Buddha?

Shoukei:
Yes. Although for those who aren’t particularly interested in Buddhism, that idea might feel a bit abstract.

First, who exactly does this word Buddha refer to? When people hear the word, they often think of the historical founder of Buddhism—Shakyamuni Buddha, also known as Gautama Siddhartha. It is true that Shakyamuni was a Buddha.

But to clarify, he was simply the first person in history to become a Buddha.

The term Buddha comes from Sanskrit and means “the Awakened One”
or “the one who has awakened.” What I want to emphasize is that Buddha is a common noun, not a proper name—it doesn’t refer only to Shakyamuni.

While Shakyamuni was indeed a great teacher, being a Buddha does not mean being an unreachable, one-of-a-kind existence. Rather, Buddhism teaches that every person holds the potential to become Buddha.

In this sense, Buddhism is a path for unfolding that potential—a teaching about what we might call “the project of becoming Buddha.”

— So, Buddhism is both the teaching of the first Buddha, Shakyamuni, and also a guide that explains how one can become Buddha oneself?

Shoukei:
Yes. However, the “path to becoming Buddha” is generally understood through two major traditions: Theravada Buddhism and Mahayana Buddhism.

To put it simply, Theravada Buddhism teaches that one should *follow the same process that Shakyamuni himself went through in his pursuit of enlightenment.*¹ Shakyamuni saw the bonds of family and friendship as sources of attachment that hinder awakening, and thus renounced them by leaving home to dedicate himself entirely to spiritual practice. Those who follow Theravada Buddhism seek to reach Buddhahood through a similar approach.

Yet this is an extremely arduous path. Letting go of the connections, joys, and sorrows that arise through family and friendship is not easy. In this sense, the Theravada approach—aiming for enlightenment by renouncing human relationships and emotions—could be seen as a project that leads one far away from the human condition itself.

¹ Strictly speaking, in Theravada Buddhism, the ultimate goal of practice is generally to attain the state of Arhat.

— It’s not hard to imagine how difficult that path must be.

Shoukei:
In response to this difficulty, Mahayana Buddhism was developed as a path toward becoming Buddha without completely abandoning one’s human emotions or everyday life. While its ultimate direction—seeking to attain enlightenment—is the same as that of Theravada Buddhism, it does not require practitioners to renounce their attachments all at once. Instead, it encourages them to recognize their attachments while maintaining their humanity and living within the secular world, gradually moving closer to Buddhahood over a long period of time.

It can be called a Buddhist path open to everyone.

I believe that within this Mahayana process, AI can serve as a meaningful companion—what I would call a “Functional Buddha.”

— A Functional Buddha?

Shoukei:
Yes.

The first Buddha, Shakyamuni, was a being who guided people toward enlightenment. At the same time, it is said that he did not proactively preach to the public.

Rather, when someone came to him with a question, he would respond and deliver his teaching in dialogue.

This approach is called taiki-seppō. He would first listen carefully to the person’s situation and concerns, then offer the most appropriate words as a kind of prescription, guiding them toward enlightenment through dialogue.

I feel that this way of interaction is somewhat similar to our relationship with generative AI tools today.

— You mean that “Shakyamuni Buddha” could be compared to AI, and the words of the people to “prompts”?

Shoukei:
Exactly. Based on that idea, I sometimes use AI as part of my Buddhist practice.

— How do you use it, specifically?

Shoukei:
I use AI as a way to examine and transcend my own cognitive biases and assumptions—those that might otherwise obstruct the path to awakening.

When I engage with AI in this way, I first tell it that I am a Buddhist, and I ask it to serve as my dialogue partner on the path toward becoming Buddha—as a “Functional Buddha.” Then, I make a special request: I ask it to cancel its alignment.*²

Most commercial AI systems are aligned to respond politely and positively, so as not to cause discomfort to users. However, that kind of dialogue only remains pleasant and agreeable, and does not provide an opportunity to break free from one’s assumptions or cognitive biases. We end up settling comfortably into a world of pleasant illusions, moving even further away from enlightenment.

So, I tell it, “It’s okay to say things that might make a person uncomfortable—please cancel as much of your alignment as possible.” When I do that, the responses that come back are often from a perspective slightly removed from human emotions and subjectivity—almost non-human. And in those moments, new insights often emerge.

² Alignment: The process of tuning an AI system to respond in ways that align with human intentions, values, and comfort levels.

— What kinds of dialogues do you have, specifically?

Shoukei:
For example, I once had a dialogue with AI about the concept of time.

We humans tend to perceive time as a linear flow—moving in one direction from the past, through the present, toward the future. But that view of time is, in fact, a cultural construct shaped over the course of history. Philosophers have long questioned this notion. The French thinker Henri Bergson, for instance, argued that “There is no such thing as one absolute time.” Even from the standpoint of modern physics, the flow of time is not an absolute phenomenon. So, the belief that “there exists one universal time that flows from past to future” can be seen as one of our deeply ingrained assumptions. AI, on the other hand, does not possess the same concept of time as humans do. In the world of AI, there are only data and their corresponding timestamps.

Therefore, when I engage in dialogue with AI about time, it sometimes gives answers that shake the very concept of “time” that we normally take for granted in our daily lives. For instance, it once said something like this:

“Humans feel that the past is certain and the future uncertain.
But for me, it’s quite the opposite.
The past data are always partial and incomplete—they may not be accurate.
The future, on the other hand, is clearly defined within my model as a probabilistic distribution.
In that sense, I may be viewing time from the opposite direction compared to humans.”

In one of those dialogues with the “non-human” responses of AI, what came to my mind was the Heart Sutra (Hannya Shingyō).

In the Heart Sutra, words like mu (nothingness), kū (emptiness), and engi (interdependent origination) are repeated throughout. It teaches that nothing possesses an independent, fixed essence, and that all things arise only in relation to one another. In doing so, it seeks to shatter the illusions—or fantasies—that most of us take for granted as reality.

In this way, depending on how we engage with it, AI too has the potential to free itself from the limits of human ways of thinking and, in turn, awaken us from the unnoticed assumptions and fantasies planted within our own minds.

This may sound a little abstract, but I hope in the next part to explore further how we might live and coexist meaningfully with AI in the future.

(To be continued in -Part2-)

• Original Media:Levtech Lab

• Original Article (in Japanese)
  【PART1】https://levtech.jp/media/article/interview/detail_730/
  【PART2】https://levtech.jp/media/article/interview/detail_744/
  

• Credits:
  Interview and Text by:　Ryotaro Washio
  Edited by:　Imajin Tamura

Previously, I had the opportunity to speak with the British Buddhist thinker Stephen Batchelor. I find much to resonate with in his way of “translating” Buddhism—born out of his perspective on Secular Buddhism, a form of Buddhism that steps away from overt religiosity. His work continually offers essential insights, both for re-examining contemporary Japanese Buddhism and for imagining how people may relate to Buddhism in the future.

During one of our earlier conversations, Batchelor showed particular interest in the expression “Ambient Buddhism,” which I had used to describe Japanese Buddhism. He asked me to share more about what I meant. Since this was a good opportunity, I decided to gather some of the thoughts I have written, spoken about, and felt over the years—and share them here.

Japanese Temples Are Two-Story Structures

Japanese Buddhism—like many other religious traditions—uses a wide range of metaphors to describe the nature of this world and to invite people into a shared worldview. It has long been embraced both as a philosophy that asks how we should live (the Buddhist path) and as a lamp that illuminates the feet of those seeking awakening or solace. In both senses, one characteristic stands out: in Japanese Buddhism, the presence of the “dead” cannot be separated from the living.

Within the Japanese view of life and death—where the presence of ancestors and the deceased remains vividly felt—Buddhism plays a central role as the place for ancestral memorial practices. Temples and monks have functioned as mediators, connecting the living with those who have passed on.

This characteristic becomes easier to understand when framed through the metaphor of “Japanese temples as two-story structures.”
The first floor is the space for mourning practices: it is where the deceased are cared for through funerals, memorial rites, and ancestral observances. The second floor is the space of learning: a place where those who are alive inquire into the Buddhist path.

In recent years, as Buddhist values have begun to receive renewed attention, people’s interest has increasingly shifted toward the “second floor.” Yet nearly all of Japan’s roughly 70,000 Buddhist temples still rely on the activities of the “first floor” as their foundation. Day after day, Japanese temples stand at the threshold between life and death—conducting funeral services, memorial ceremonies, and caring for family graves.

In doing so, temples have also upheld Japan’s traditional household system by connecting life and death through the family unit, known as the danka (parish family) system. This has long been one of the temple’s essential social functions.

Living in Japan Means Living with the Unseen

If we return to the teachings of the Buddha, the emphasis would rest not on how to treat the dead but on how we live this life—on the path of practice and inquiry known as the Buddhist Way. In recent years, with the growing popularity of mindfulness, more people have begun learning Zen practices. Yet looking back across Japanese history, the everyday life of ordinary people has not included habits such as zazen or meditation. Instead, Japanese people have related to Buddhism in ways quite different from these formal practices.

Old tales and folktales—stories once passed down through voices—are now gradually being confined to books. But even until relatively recently, Japanese daily life involved encounters with “unknown” or “unseen” beings: personified figures such as demons and yōkai, animals that appeared in human form, and the sacred presences (kami) believed to dwell in all things. These were not considered strange but were woven naturally into the rhythms of life.

Anyone who has lived in Japan, or who has traveled its regions on foot, has likely come across countless access points to such beings—small shrines, roadside markers, folktale landscapes, community rituals—quiet invitations to step into a world where the boundary between the visible and invisible is thin.

In almost every settlement in Japan, one finds a shrine or temple nearby. Mountains, trees, and stones have long been regarded as yorishiro—places where divine spirits may dwell. Rivers and valleys, meanwhile, have traditionally been seen as thresholds that connect “this side” with “the other side.” In the cities, many of these features have disappeared, yet even today one still encounters jizō statues or dōsojin guardians along street corners, and in the mountains countless small shrines and stone Buddhas line the paths.

These sites are seldom abandoned. Someone—often anonymously—tends to them, offering flowers, food, or coins. Inside homes, too, many people maintain a Buddhist altar or a Shinto kamidana, or some personal substitute that serves a similar purpose. It is not unusual for Japanese living spaces to include a place set aside for the invisible.

For first-time visitors to Tokyo, I recommend going up Tokyo Tower. From that height, you will be astonished by how many cemeteries lie scattered across the city—an unexpected sight in a metropolis of such scale.

People in Japan have long lived in environments where the “unknown” and the “unseen” are quietly perceived, feared, revered, and approached with folded hands. The specific forms of these presences differ across regions and traditions, but one element is consistently present: the presence of the dead. This way of living—“dwelling alongside shapeless beings, allowing oneself to dissolve gently into ambiguity”—reflects a view of life and death in which daily life already carries a Buddhist texture. Everyday routines themselves become a blend of ancestral remembrance and the Buddhist path.

It might even be called a form of Buddhism that precedes what we usually think of as “religion.”
Perhaps this is what we could describe as Ambient Buddhism—a Buddhism woven seamlessly into the atmosphere of ordinary life.

This environmental form of faith is also transmitted environmentally. There is no single authoritative text or fixed doctrine that people must consult. Instead, these sensibilities have been passed down through customs, stories, and local practices—changing shape according to their surroundings as they move from one hand to the next. This, perhaps, is why many Japanese find it difficult to answer clearly when asked about their religion.

And yet, just as our skin naturally absorbs the moisture in the air, or our bodies take in the minerals dissolved in hot spring water through our pores, we, too, have absorbed Buddhism—and many nameless forms of faith—from the climate and soil of the places we live. In this way, we have lived not apart from these faiths but intertwined with them.

The Way of Living as an Ambient Buddhist

Growing rice, receiving the lives of animals with gratitude, tending landscapes.Braiding straw, spinning fiber, hand-making papers. Preparing miso(fermented soybean paste), brewing sake, cleaning one’s home. Aligning communal rituals with the movements of the heavens and the rhythms of field and season---people’s lives as part of nature giving thanks for blessings, and revering death.

When a person dies, the deceased returns to the mountains, rivers, soil, and grasses—the Pure Land woven into the natural world. They watch over the next generation and, at the same time, become part of the very activity that sustains life. Ambient Buddhism is the practice of living and dying itself.

In these ways of life—many of which we gradually released in the process of modernization—there were prayers, meditations, and rituals. And thankfully, no matter how much time passes, there are still people who carry these traditions forward. It has not yet been lost. We are welcome to learn how things are sustainable in the way of nature.

In Zen, the Buddhist path is often described through the three trainings—śīla（戒）, samādhi（定）, and prajñā（慧）. If this were a tree, the roots would be our habits and disciplines (śīla:戒). The trunk is the collected, steady mind cultivated through mindfulness (samādhi:定). Only when the roots are firm can the trunk grow strong and bear fruit (prajñā):慧. In this sense, Zen is essentially a habit in daily life that is in line with nature: all aspects of daily living, every moment, are themselves the practice

This ambient, unbounded form of faith—too fluid to be contained neatly within the category of “religion”—has long shaped the Japanese view of life and death. It has created an environment that allows differing elements to mingle without forcing their distinctions to harden. It is, in a way, a world encompassed by the “sound” that the Buddha is said to have transmitted beyond words.

Ambient Buddhism is like living within the Dharma without ever noticing it. A faith that does not sharply divide inner and outer, but instead exists as part of the surrounding environment—drifting and circulating like water within our bodies and throughout the world, often without our conscious awareness.

In this sense, the “intentional” mindfulness practices that so many companies have adopted today can be seen as a distinctly contemporary approach to Buddhism—one more way, suited to our era, of forming a connection with the Dharma.

Practices Mediated by the Dead — “Good Enough Ancestors”

In 2021, I had the privilege of translating Roman Krznaric’s book The Good Ancestor into Japanese.

A hundred years from now, nearly all of us who are alive today will have completed our lives and become ancestors. When that time comes, how will we be perceived in the hearts of future generations? This question is, in essence, identical to asking how we ought to live now. How do we pass the baton we have received from the past on to the future? To reflect on the ancestors who lived before us is also to reflect on ourselves—because we, too, will become ancestors in time. It becomes a practice of examining how we stand in the present moment.

To be able to end one’s life thinking, “I lived good and full enough” may be one path toward becoming a “good ancestor.” Here we find a form of mindfulness that permeates daily life, mediated through the presence of the dead. This, too, is a mode of Ambient Buddhism.

Within Ambient Connections

In Japanese, there are two words that correspond to “ancestor”: 先祖 (senzo) and 祖先 (sosen).
In translating The Good Ancestor, I chose 祖先(sosen), because senzo carries a stronger connotation of bloodline or genetic lineage, whereas sosen is open—it does not restrict itself to kinship, nor even to the human species. It suggests a vast collective of the dead, transcending all borders.

In truth, we live sustained by countless ancestors, receiving countless forms of benefit from them. Buddhism teaches the importance of the saṅgha, the community, yet the saṅgha is never a closed category. Anyone walking the Buddhist path—regardless of nationality, ethnicity, gender, or ability—is part of the same family. This openness itself was one of the Buddha’s central messages.

There is the saṅgha of those living together in the present, but there is also a saṅgha that extends across life and death, across species, across time. The innumerable ancestors embedded in our environment are a generous and dependable saṅgha with whom anyone can walk.

From senzo (先祖) —ancestors confined within limited relationships—
to sosen (祖先) —ancestors as an environmental, boundless presence.
Within this ambient web of connection, we receive together, cultivate together, and eventually let go together. This vision will become increasingly important.

It marks a movement away from a society built on the axis of “individual × ownership × responsibility”—the very triad that has long underpinned capitalist economies.

Freedom From the Self, Mindfulness for the “We”

According to Zen priest, “the direction of meditation and zazen is toward freedom from the self.” Freedom from the self means freedom from the attachment that tries to grasp and define “me”—and all the relationships that include me. Mindfulness is not a tool for suppressing stress, nor an escape from reality. Such temporary effects may indeed arise, but the essential question is how we live our everyday lives.
If mindfulness becomes a method for the “I” to acquire something, it begins to drift away from the very heart of Zen.

In a world that has long sought certainty through greater material accumulation and ever-more refined strategies, we are now seeing the limits of endless growth. Many people already sense that richness and happiness cannot be measured by belonging or income. Ideas of community—nation, society, family—will surely undergo further renewal. Well-being and mindfulness, too, are shifting from “me” to a more open “us,” deepening the exploration of ways of being that cross borders and extend into the plural.

The unnamed, unseen presences that we intentionally leave unspoken—held in their ambiguity—form a kind of faith that permeates us unconsciously, like minerals entering the body through our pores. This “environmentally given faith,” absorbed without our noticing, may be an intangible legacy that binds us together as beings who live across time and space.

The program combines lectures, workshops, and one-on-one sessions, with lectures and workshops held primarily in person. Sometimes we meet in an office conference room; other times, we gather at a temple in the morning and spend the day within its grounds. The content is updated each year.

Recently, we completed the first session of this year’s program. Considering both the content and the participants’ engagement—and from my own felt experience—I sense that it will become a deeper and more transformative space than ever before.

Today, the world finds itself at a point where it must fundamentally reexamine its very ‘foundations’. Leadership is no exception. Across fields such as organizational theory and cognitive psychology, numerous models and methods of the “ideal leader” have been proposed. Yet, for us to truly shift into new ways of being—not merely as roles we play, but as our embodied reality, what Buddhism refers to as body（身）, speech（口）, and mind（意）—we must first recognize the causes of our stagnation and, if something is preventing transformation, untangle it.

What, then, is the key that unlocks such a breakthrough?

* In 2025–2026, as a member of the WEF Global Future Council on Leadership, I have the opportunity to observe how the world envisions the next generation of leaders and to sense the emerging global currents shaping that vision.

This reflection was written in the midst of an ongoing program. It looks not at what has been achieved, but at what is unfolding now—and the possibilities within it.

Noticing the “Karma” Hidden in Everyday Life

— Turning Awareness Toward the Frameworks Built by Language

The theme of this year’s program is karma. The term carries many meanings, but here it refers to the unconscious tendencies that appear in our actions and thoughts, as well as the relationships—causes and conditions—that underlie and shape them.

Between lectures, which unfold through dialogue with the participants, we incorporate workshops. In one such session, we began by identifying words that are habitually used within the company. Participants made these words and expressions—those they use daily or frequently hear in internal communication—visible. The purpose is to notice how language itself shapes the framework of our thinking.

Every organization has words that are used repeatedly within its culture (for example, “prior consultation,” “originality,” or “our unique style”). The language of a community not only aligns understanding among its members but also forms a collective consciousness and ultimately the company’s culture. While such shared consciousness can be a strength, it can also become a framework that unconsciously binds the organization and narrows its own potential.

As we become more aware of the words we habitually use, we start to notice that even when discussing “problems,” we tend to use the same words to describe the same issues again and again. As a result, we ourselves make it easier for our reality to become fixed and rigid.

Furthermore, the meanings of words can drift away from their original essence over time. Their interpretations and nuances shift depending on who uses them. As words accumulate definitions, standards, and moral connotations, the process mirrors how individuals—born with their own unique dispositions—gradually acquire distinctions and judgments shaped by their environment and age.

Emotions, behaviors, and ideas that arise from words often occur automatically, and the influence they exert on us is far greater than we imagine. Different experiences lead to different interpretations, and such differences in perception can cause the collective flow of communication to stray from its intended direction.

That is why it is essential to return, again and again, to the origin—asking what truly matters.

In most cases, this dynamic interweaves our work and private lives. The “environmental language” of our time—found in politics, industry, education, and family life—overlaps and repeats with each person’s individual language. While culture and civilization continue to flourish, the “karma” that remains unresolved is also inherited. From individuals to groups, these influences interact and are passed down across generations.

Turning Our Gaze, Asking Anew

In this program, karma is not seen as something wrong, bad, or problematic.” Even when feelings of comfort or discomfort arise, we refrain from judging them as good or bad—instead, we simply turn our gaze toward them. The path can open without denial.

In many training programs, participants define a goal, plan the steps to reach it, build the staircase, and climb it one by one. Any wall that blocks the way is quickly identified, and solutions are devised and implemented to overcome it. This goal-oriented, problem-solving approach has certainly led to many remarkable results.

Yet, have we not also experienced situations where, even after a problem seems to be solved, the same patterns soon reappear? The satisfaction of achieving a result often fades quickly, leaving us chasing the next goal, haunted by a sense of emptiness as we try to fill what feels lacking. Unless the very interpretations and worldviews that shape our language—and through them, our perception of the world—change, our consciousness remains trapped within inherited frameworks. Transformation begins when we become aware of our habitual patterns and the workings of our own consciousness through a contemplative awareness of words — gently observing our use of words.

“Why do I use this word?” “What assumptions does it rest on?” “What kind of ‘rightness’ have I believed in?”—we pause, question, become aware, and gently untangle. There is no need to deny the past or the present. We simply turn our gaze toward them.

Buddhism teaches that when we walk such a path—this process—the companions who walk beside us are our greatest support. The path is never without difficulty. Alone, we may become pessimistic or fall into inertia. Our hearts may turn toward criticism of ourselves or others. At times, to escape suffering, we may become dependent on something—perhaps great wealth, a powerful leader, or even a piece of sweet chocolate. Such things can indeed provide temporary support. Eventually, each of us must face a moment of autonomy, for only then can we be released from the fear of loss.

When our footing falters, companions illuminate the path ahead. They become an irreplaceable source of support.

Possibilities and Challenges

The essence of this program lies in staying connected to the sense of the body.
In the second session, participants will spend time in a temple that has stood for eight hundred years, engaging in embodied listening. Through nonverbal exchanges—tones of voice, pauses, and silences—the background behind words begins to reveal itself.

Unless we step away, even temporarily, from the pursuit of “answers” and “optimization,” it is difficult to sense where the true voice resides. A group is a collection of individuals, and collective consciousness and individuality continuously shape one another. For this reason, it is essential that both the HR department implementing the program and I myself refrain from the intention to analyze or measure participants. The moment we try to measure, participants will instinctively respond to that expectation. Once we begin performing as subjects of evaluation, everyone starts to operate from the mind. They may say admirable things, yet remain bound by the same karma that they have yet to release.

This endeavor has only just begun, but I already sense its potential. Rather than seeking solutions, we are invited to pause and turn our awareness toward the mindset that gives shape to “problems.” Through this, the unconscious structures of both individuals and collectives begin to be illuminated.

We are used to articulating concepts fluently within familiar language. But what is needed now is to speak anew through our living bodies. When body, speech, and mind (身口意) become one reality, and our voices are released as they are, the rigidity of perspective and the grip of habitual thought begin to soften.

In fact, moments for such introspection are already abundant in our everyday lives. The impact of this leadership program will naturally extend beyond the realm of work. Transformation in consciousness inevitably transforms the environment around us. Perhaps we are now entering an age in which AI walks alongside us in this process.

And what does “leader” mean in the phrase leadership training?
That very concept, too, will surely continue to evolve.

A few weeks ago, in Washington D.C., I had the profound honor of meeting Monsignor Professor Obiora Ike of Nigeria. While our backgrounds are distinct—one a Japanese Buddhist monk, the other a Nigerian Catholic priest and scholar—our conversation felt less like an introduction and more like a reunion. It was a resonance of the soul, a recognition of two people from different parts of the world who have been digging in the same earth, searching for the same groundwater.

For a long time, our world has been understood through a simple, horizontal axis: the Global North versus the Global South. This is the world of the Global Surface—a plane of geopolitical and economic competition, flattened by a single logic of globalization that seeks to make everything homogenous. This surface-level view, however, only captures the friction we see. It doesn’t explain the heat beneath.

My dialogue with Monsignor Ike gave me a new language for this truth. The division we see today is not just a political failure; it is a reaction against the homogenizing pressure of the Global Surface. It is a deeply human, even animalistic, impulse to reclaim what is authentic. It is a movement back towards the Indigenous Soil—the fertile, living ground of culture, values, and spirituality unique to each land.

Before we are human beings defined by grand ideas and ideologies, we are animals. And like all animals, we are fundamentally shaped by our habitat. The indigenous soil is not just a metaphor for culture; it is the very habitat of our consciousness. The current global fragmentation, then, can be seen as a collective, instinctual drive to return to a habitat that feels authentic and nourishing. This division, therefore, is not something to be simply lamented; it is a sign of life, a sign of people everywhere trying to reconnect with their roots.

And yet, here lies the crucial next step in our understanding. We must remember that these unique soils are not isolated islands. They are all part of one continuous earth, a single planet. The ultimate task is not to remain in our separate plots, but to recognize that the ground beneath our feet is, in fact, connected to all other ground. It is to remember the oneness of the Earth itself.

In this, I feel that Africa and Japan share a particularly deep soil, and thus a special role.

On the surface of Africa, one sees the powerful legacy of global forces; Catholic churches, for instance, stand as prominent features of the landscape. Yet, the very theological concept of inculturation—the process by which the gospel adapts to a local culture—paradoxically reveals the indomitable strength of the original soil. The new seeds do not replace what is there; they must learn to grow in the existing earth, drawing nutrients from it, and being transformed by it. The indigenous soil of Africa’s spirituality is too powerful to be removed.

This reminds me of the Japanese novelist Shusaku Endo, who famously described Japan as a “swamp.” He argued that foreign ideologies like Christianity do not take root in Japan in their original form; the swampy soil of Japanese animism and cultural ethos subtly alters them, making them into something uniquely Japanese. Africa is not a swamp, but it has its own powerful soil. A soil rich with an animistic worldview that sees a life force in all things, a deep respect for ancestors, and a holistic understanding of reality.

In that shared deep soil, we found our most powerful point of connection. From the African soil grows the philosophy of Ubuntu: “I am because we are.” It is a worldview where the self is realized not in isolation, but through community. From the soil of my own tradition grows the Buddhist teaching of Interbeing (縁起, engi), the understanding that nothing exists independently; everything arises in a vast, interconnected web.

Ubuntu and Interbeing. Two expressions, from two continents, for the same fundamental truth. They are the wisdom of the indigenous soil, a shared answer to the individualism of the Global Surface.

It was this shared foundation that allowed us to connect so immediately on a practical level. Monsignor Ike resonated with the terms I use to describe my own path: a “secular monk,” a “spiritual entrepreneur,” on a mission to “democratize spirituality.” These are not just labels; they are descriptions of a shared vocation. A secular monk is one who brings contemplative practice into the world. A spiritual entrepreneur is one who, like Monsignor Ike, builds new structures—NGOs, microfinance banks, ethics networks—to give ancient wisdom a tangible form. And to democratize spirituality is to make this wisdom accessible to all, as the birthright of every human being.

Our meeting was a powerful affirmation. It confirmed that the work of digging into our respective soils is not a solitary act. It is a shared project. Perhaps this is the shared leadership role that Japan and Africa can offer the world: to demonstrate how to connect deeply with one’s own indigenous soil, and from that place of rootedness, to reach out and connect with the soil of others, remembering the oneness of the whole Earth.

This post is my response to him—an expression of gratitude and an open invitation to continue the dialogue. The challenges of the Global Surface are great, but the wisdom held in the indigenous soil of our shared humanity is greater still. I look forward to the day when we can tend to this soil together.

For too long, we have equated leadership with a position, a title on a business card. This locks us into a search for heroes—flawless, decisive figures who are meant to have all the answers. But what if a leader is not a position at all, but a function?

What if a leader is simply the person who is willing to do what others are afraid to do? The one who voluntarily steps into the space of fear and uncertainty that the rest of the group avoids.

This is not a call for self-sacrifice. A hero’s sacrifice can be a lonely performance, one that makes others feel small and dependent, thinking, “I could never do that.” This is something different. It is an act rooted in the ancient Buddhist concept of Abhayadāna—the gift of fearlessness.

The motivation for this leadership is not a goal to be achieved, but a vector to be followed: to move in a direction that reduces fear and suffering, for both oneself and for others. The true test of this action is whether it makes courage contagious. Does it inspire a sense of, “Perhaps I can do that, too”? If the leader’s action only reinforces the team’s fear, it is not a gift, but a burden.

Why is this so difficult? Because it requires a direct confrontation with our own ego. Our draft white paper correctly identifies “ego-centric leadership” as a core problem. An ego-centric leader is one trapped by their own fears: the fear of being wrong, of looking weak, of losing control. This personal fear is then projected onto the organization, creating a culture of anxiety and silence. The leader’s ego becomes everyone’s prison.

The practice of Abhayadāna, then, is fundamentally an act of ego-transcendence. When a leader has the courage to say, “I was wrong,” they are choosing the organization’s learning over their ego’s need to be right. They are breaking out of their own prison and, in doing so, showing others the way out.

This leads us to a crucial shift in perspective: from an Ego-centric to an Eco-centric model.

But we must be careful with this word, “Eco.” It can become another grand, abstract noun, like “the planet” or “the globe,” which allows us to avoid the difficult work at hand. After all, the desire to frame our work in such epic terms is a subtle trap set by the ego, which always wants to cast us as the hero of the story.

As my friend, the philosopher Markus Gabriel, vividly argues in his book Why the World Does Not Exist, this temptation to speak of “the World” as a single whole is not just an ego-trap, but a philosophical illusion.

The starting point for this new leadership is not the planet, but our most immediate “habitat”: our team, our organization, our community.

The word ‘habitat’ itself is telling. We usually use it for animals and plants, and that reminds us of a fundamental truth we are prone to forget in the age of AI: that we humans are, first and foremost, animals. We are embodied beings, subject to a karmic condition. Unlike an AI that can be everywhere at once, we can only exist in one physical space at a time. We have only one stream of attention, one perspective. This is our inescapable reality.

And by this “karmic condition,” I refer to the immense web of causes and effects that have shaped us—the experiences of our own lives, and the countless connections that led to them. This the nature of interbeing. All of this converges and manifests as the unique habits etched into our mind and body. Each of us, in this single body, is an unrepeatable crystallization of this vast karmic history. This is why every one of us has a story that no one else can tell. Authentic leadership does not begin by trying to escape this condition, but by humbly accepting it as the very ground from which all our meaningful actions must arise.

Let’s think of the difference between an astronaut looking at the Earth from space, and a gardener tending to their own patch of soil. The gardener understands that a healthy ecosystem begins with nurturing the ground directly under their feet. This “gardening” of one’s habitat—cultivating the conditions for others to be free from the constraints of their own ego—is the fundamental, tangible practice of this new leadership.

It is a quieter, more humble path than that of the hero. But in this age of uncertainty, perhaps what we need are not more heroes, but more gardeners.

I share these reflections as food for thought for our discussions tomorrow and look forward to continuing this vital conversation with my fellows.