Curiously enough, that did not happen until 1998. By then the temple had stood for more than five hundred years.
The Temple of Heaven lies in the southern part of central Beijing, just over four kilometers south of the Forbidden City. The entire park, with its green grounds, covers nearly 2.7 square kilometers and is therefore larger than the Forbidden City. In the new millennium it is surrounded by broad avenues and modern city life, yet within its walls one finds a striking calm.
The sanctuary was erected in the early fifteenth century, at the same time as the Forbidden City. Behind these vast building projects stood the reigning emperor, Yongle. When he ascended the throne in 1402, Nanjing was the capital of the realm. Yongle decided to move it to Beijing, more than a thousand kilometers farther north.
The decision set in motion a colossal construction program that engaged tens of thousands of craftsmen and laborers for two decades.
Both the Forbidden City, the emperor’s residence, and the Temple of Heaven were completed in 1420. That same year, the court officially moved to Beijing.
It was self-evident that the new capital had to possess a Temple of Heaven. Since the emperor was the “Son of Heaven” and had received a heavenly mandate to rule, he needed to communicate with the powers above.
We do not know who designed the temple. Most likely it had several architects who followed strict cosmological and ritual principles. The intricate building regulations were eventually compiled into weighty manuals. One name, however, frequently appears in the yellowed documents of the period: Kuai Xiang. He was an outstanding master builder from the city of Suzhou and is usually regarded as the chief architect of the Forbidden City. Perhaps he also played a role when the Temple of Heaven was conceived and raised.
In classical Chinese thought it is said: “Heaven is round, Earth is square.” The Hall of Prayer was therefore circular, while the marble platform on which it stands was square. That twenty-eight pillars were to support the hall was no coincidence either; they were meant to represent the four seasons, the twelve months, and the twelve hours of the day (4+12+12). Nothing was accidental, neither inside nor out. The British sinologist Joseph Needham (1900–1995) wrote that the complex is “an architectural representation of Chinese cosmology in its most concentrated form.”
The emperors observed fixed, recurring rituals at the Temple of Heaven. The most important was the Winter Solstice ceremony. On this occasion the emperor sacrificed an animal, usually an ox. The animal, which had to be without blemish, was slaughtered and presented as an offering before later being burned.
Jade objects were also offered, since jade symbolized purity and heavenly power. Rolls of blue or white silk were presented as well, for these colors represented the sky—along with grain and wine. After the offerings had been laid forth, they were burned in a special furnace. The smoke rising upward symbolized their transmission to the heavenly sphere. On the same occasion, the emperor knelt nine times to reaffirm his mandate.
The Winter Solstice ritual was performed at a circular altar under the open sky, with no roof between the emperor and the cosmos. A Qing court chronicle describes the atmosphere: “Frost lies white upon the marble. The tones of the bells are clear and slow. The emperor stands alone beneath the vast heaven.”
The other major rite, the Spring Ceremony, took place in the round Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests. The ceremony marked the beginning of the agricultural season. In a land where the majority of the population lived from cultivating the soil, this was a necessary act.
On behalf of the entire realm, the emperor prayed for the proper measure of rain, for the absence of flood and drought, for good growth and stable weather. He entered the Hall of Prayer and knelt before a tablet—a lacquered wooden plaque representing Heaven. During the Ming and Qing dynasties it bore inscriptions such as “The August Heavenly Sovereign” or similar formulations.
On this occasion as well, animals, jade, silk, grain, and wine were sacrificed. The emperor then read a prayer aloud.
Parts of the ritual were accompanied by music from the court orchestra. The music was called yayue, “elegant” or “correct” music—the highest and most formal musical form in Chinese tradition. Its tone was restrained and its tempo slow.
For the moral philosopher Confucius (551–479 BCE), music was a moral instrument. He believed that proper music could shape proper character. Court music was therefore to be regulated and orderly—and to reflect the perfect state.
When the emperor traveled from the Forbidden City to the Temple of Heaven, the route was cleared of all other traffic. Thousands of people would follow the procession, a rare opportunity to witness imperial splendor. Yet they were required to stand still and behave respectfully. An edict from the Qing dynasty (1644–1911) stipulated that spectators were to “turn their gaze toward the ground” as the emperor’s carriage passed.
The emperor usually sat in a closed sedan chair or carriage with curtains. During the ceremony he wore a crown with strings of pearls hanging before his face. The adornment was not only intended to be beautiful; more importantly, it created physical and symbolic distance. Direct eye contact with the emperor was problematic. In Chinese political culture, the ruler was not merely a person but a cosmic figure. To stare directly at him could be regarded as disrespectful.
The American diplomat’s wife Sarah Pike Conger (1843–1932) wrote that the city “seemed to hold its breath” as the imperial procession passed. The emperor was scarcely visible behind the yellow silk curtains, yet the silence and the measured music made his presence all the more powerful.
The last emperor likely to kneel at the Temple of Heaven was Guangxu, who reigned from 1875 to 1908. With him, not only did the bells and drums fall silent; the very notion of the emperor as the link between Heaven and Earth began to erode. In 1908 the court placed a three-year-old boy on the throne in a futile attempt to save the Qing dynasty. Four years later China became a republic. The imperial state rituals were abolished.
In 1914, however, President Yuan Shikai attempted to revive the rites in order to make himself emperor. He even performed a ceremony at the Temple of Heaven—a clear signal that he wished to present himself as the new Son of Heaven. This project also failed. It was the last time a Chinese leader sought to use the altar in a traditional political sense.
Finally, in 1918, the area was officially opened as a public park. What had once been inaccessible to ordinary citizens and reserved for the emperor and his officials became a green space for the city’s inhabitants. A contemporary Chinese newspaper wrote that “the people now stroll where the emperor once knelt.”
The following decades were marked by civil war and the Japanese invasion, and both the temple and the surrounding park fell into neglect. As the civil war drew to a close in 1949, the American sinologist Derk Bodde visited the Temple of Heaven. On China’s holiest ground, hundreds of young men lay sleeping. Some had been sent to Beijing to study, but no one had taken responsibility for them.
The white marble terraces were covered with bedding, clothes, and filth, and the steps of the Hall of Prayer were smeared with excrement. Bodde saw no sign of leadership or organization. Many officials had fled, and those who remained had more than enough to do providing for themselves and their families.
With the Communist takeover that same year, a new era began. Yet at that moment Mao and his comrades were thinking of anything but the monuments of the imperial age. In the years that followed, both the Forbidden City and the Temple of Heaven deteriorated further. When the Cultural Revolution erupted in 1966, China’s historical monuments were defined as part of the “Four Olds”: old ideas, old culture, old customs, and old habits. In principle, both sites were in danger.
In August that year, Mao’s Red Guards flooded through Beijing to destroy temples, statues, and cultural relics. At the Temple of Heaven some objects and religious inscriptions were destroyed, but most of the complex survived. According to several historians, the city’s most important cultural monuments were saved through the direct intervention of Premier Zhou Enlai, regarded as more moderate than Mao.
Many years have passed. China is still ruled by a strict Communist Party, yet today’s leaders have recognized the importance of safeguarding the country’s rich past. Both the Forbidden City and the Temple of Heaven underwent extensive restoration before the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing.
The same has happened to historical monuments across the country, and Party leader Xi Jinping seizes every opportunity to emphasize that today’s China is the heir to a civilization thousands of years old: “Without understanding our history, we cannot understand the present; and without understanding the present, we cannot shape the future.”
If you visit Beijing, you should not leave without admiring the Temple of Heaven. It now shines as never before, and in the park that surrounds it you may enjoy the birds’ spring song. The first thing you will notice is the mighty cypresses. Some are several hundred years old. Their trunks are twisted and dark, their crowns forming dense vaults. The cypress is a symbol of endurance and eternity.
What tree could be more fitting around the Temple of Heaven?
