A docu-essay on Heungcheonsa’s five-story Sarigak, early Joseon power, and how cities erase their own memory
In central Seoul, there’s a patch of land that feels strangely unavailable—a fenced-off space near Deoksugung where access, ownership, excavation, and “what should be built here” have been argued over for years. If you’ve ever walked the stone-wall road and wondered why a prime slice of Jeongdong still looks like a pause button, you’re not imagining it. The area has been tied to long-running heritage and redevelopment disputes, including the return of the former Deoksugung-related site through a Korea–U.S. land swap and the restoration/opening of “Gojong’s Road,” plus ongoing excavation and reporting tied to the old Seonwonjeon precinct. (공감)
But here’s the twist: when I look at spaces like that, I don’t first think “development plan.”
I think: what used to stand here that was big enough to be worth forgetting?
And that question leads to a ghost story from early Joseon—one that doesn’t star a villain or a hero, but a system.
1) Joseon “pushed Buddhism out”… but never fully got rid of it
Early Joseon spoke the language of Confucian governance, and Buddhism was pressured, downsized, and administratively controlled—often through systems that regulated who could be a monk and how many could legally exist (the docheop certification framework is one of the key mechanisms people cite). (S-Space)
Yet the court still needed Buddhism in moments when pure policy wasn’t enough: royal mourning, legitimacy, disaster rites, and the invisible theater of sovereignty. In other words:
Ideology wanted a clean map. Reality demanded escape hatches.
That’s where Heungcheonsa enters—an institution born from royal grief, but sustained by state logistics.
2) Heungcheonsa: a royal temple planted in the capital’s bloodstream
Heungcheonsa is widely described as a temple founded to pray for Queen Sindeok (King Taejo’s consort), and what’s especially important for this story is that it wasn’t just “a temple somewhere outside the city.” Sources describe it as a major royal temple within the capital sphere—located near the end of the Yukjo Street corridor outside Gwanghwamun, and closely tied to the custody of sacred relics. (한국민족문화대백과사전)
This matters because it reframes the usual assumption:
If Joseon was “anti-Buddhist,” why would a temple receive capital-grade resources?
Answer: because suppression wasn’t simply demolition.
Often it was control—and controlled institutions can become enormous when the state decides they are useful.
3) The Sarigak wasn’t just “a building.” It was an administrative event.
At the center of the legend is the Sarigak (舍利閣)—a reliquary hall for sacred relics.
The Annals record a striking detail: the state orders the making/installation of a copper net (銅網) for the Sarigak at Heungcheonsa, and—here’s the part that turns architecture into political economy—monks are mobilized with an explicit exchange logic: labor for certification. The entry describes granting docheop to 50 monks on the condition of 30 days of corvée labor connected to the Sarigak works. (홈페이지 이름)
That single line is more revealing than a thousand “Buddhism vs Confucianism” slogans:
This wasn’t a private devotional renovation.
The state machinery moved. (홈페이지 이름)The anti-Buddhist control tool (docheop) wasn’t only a weapon to shrink Buddhism.
It was also a lever to extract skilled labor when needed. (홈페이지 이름)A “copper net” is not a casual decoration.
It hints at scale, exposure, height, and structural ambition—especially in a multi-story wooden complex where weathering and safety become engineering problems, not aesthetics. (홈페이지 이름)
In documentary terms: the camera stops filming doctrine and starts filming budgets.
4) The five-story shock: what “heavy cavalry” is to war, “systems” are to buildings
Here’s where the story gets cinematic.
A later Annals passage discussing repairs and modifications to the Sarigak explicitly notes that the Sarigak was originally five stories, then details practical interventions: expanding the first floor, improving the stairs, and even raising walls and stationing guards so outsiders couldn’t look in. (홈페이지 이름)
Read that again: five stories, in wood, in early Joseon Seoul—and important enough that the state worries about unauthorized viewing. (홈페이지 이름)
This is where I stop thinking “temple building” and start thinking:
a regime-managed monument—built out of timber, manpower, permission, and fear of disorder.
Also note the layered tradition: one major reference describes an earlier phase as a three-story reliquary hall (built in the late 14th century), while later records describe a five-story reality—suggesting growth, rebuilding, or shifting descriptions over time. (한국민족문화대백과사전)
So if you’re tempted to argue about “was it exactly five stories,” you’re already missing the real point:
The Sarigak was not a single object. It was a living package—repaired, expanded, administratively guarded, and repeatedly re-justified.
5) Why would the biggest wooden ambition end up in a temple, not a palace?
If you want a clean explanation, you won’t get one. History rarely gives you that kindness.
But three forces make the temple-as-megaproject feel almost inevitable:
(1) Royal mourning as public power
A memorial temple is private grief with state-level visibility. The court’s sorrow becomes a statement: we rule, we remember, we sanctify. (한국민족문화대백과사전)
(2) Capital-era construction concentration
When a dynasty builds a capital, craftsmanship and materials surge: palaces, gates, offices, walls—and occasionally a religious structure that becomes the “maxed-out” expression of available technique.
(3) The paradox of suppression
“Anti-Buddhist policy” often means: reduce the number of institutions, tighten control, and concentrate functions into manageable hubs.
A controlled hub can become huge—because it’s permitted to exist as a tool.
Heungcheonsa fits that profile: not the opposite of policy, but a product of how policy works in real life. (홈페이지 이름)
6) Fire came twice—and the city edited the memory out
Wooden giants have one natural predator: fire.
According to a major reference, the temple complex suffered catastrophic destruction in 1504, and the Sarigak—what remained—was later burned in 1510, described as arson by Confucian students, after which the temple effectively fell into ruin. (한국민족문화대백과사전)
And then comes the cruelest part of urban history:
Buildings don’t just burn.
They get overwritten.
Over time, the capital repaints itself with new walls, new roads, new ownership documents, new diplomatic boundaries, new “plans.” And what survives is often not the building—but a portable remainder: the same reference notes that the temple’s great bell was moved to Deoksugung, where it endured. (한국민족문화대백과사전)
So yes—when you walk near Deoksugung today, you’re not only walking beside a palace.
You’re walking beside a city that learned how to forget.
7) Back to the “empty lot”: the most interesting places look blank
That fenced space in Jeongdong isn’t fascinating because it’s empty.
It’s fascinating because it reminds us that Seoul’s surface is a palimpsest—and “nothing” often means layers.
show the modern dispute and restoration context,
then pull the reader under the asphalt,
then hit them with the Annals’ cold administrative sentence: 30 days of labor for a docheop,
then reveal the five-story detail,
then end with fire—and the bell that escaped.
That structure doesn’t just explain a temple.
It explains how states turn belief into infrastructure.
Quick FAQ
Q1) Was there really a five-story wooden Sarigak in early Joseon Seoul?
A record in the Annals describes the Sarigak as originally five stories while discussing later repairs and security measures. (홈페이지 이름)
Q2) What’s the most “hard” primary-source clue that this was a state-scale project?
The Annals record state-directed work on a copper net for the Sarigak and explicitly ties monk mobilization to docheop issuance—50 monks, 30 days—which reads like an administrative contract. (홈페이지 이름)
Q3) If Joseon suppressed Buddhism, why invest so much in a temple?
Because suppression often operated as control and concentration, and royal needs (mourning, legitimacy, rituals) kept certain institutions strategically useful. (한국민족문화대백과사전)
Q4) Why does the Jeongdong/Deoksugung area still feel “unfinished” today?
That area has been tied to heritage recovery and long-running land/ownership history, including the Seonwonjeon precinct’s restoration context and the reopening of “Gojong’s Road” after the land swap. (공감)
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