The Crossroads of Reform: Shenzong’s Dilemma

On February 21, 1070, Emperor Shenzong of the Northern Song Dynasty made a decision that would alter the course of Chinese history. That same day, as the eminent conservative statesman Sima Guang submitted his fourth resignation, the radical reformer Wang Anshi emerged from a brief political retreat to reclaim his position as chief councilor. This was no coincidence—it marked Shenzong’s reluctant surrender to Wang’s vision. By February 23, Wang had initiated a sweeping ideological campaign, targeting even Han Qi, a respected elder statesman who had dared criticize the controversial Green Sprouts Loan Policy.

A contemporary observer, censor Chen Xiang, captured the political tension in a memorial:

“When Your Majesty appointed Sima Guang as Deputy Military Commissioner, the entire court believed you recognized the wisdom of his views—that the Finance Planning Commission was a mistake. Yet now you dismiss him abruptly. Does this mean you now consider him wrong? If his resignation alone prompted this, does Your Majesty not understand that Sima Guang refused the post precisely because you rejected his principles? To truly employ Sima Guang, you must implement his policies. The logic is simple—why does Your Majesty hesitate?”

Shenzong never wished to choose between Sima Guang’s conservatism and Wang Anshi’s radicalism. Yet the young emperor, lacking the political finesse to reconcile these opposing forces, ultimately embraced Wang’s transformative agenda. This decision became both Shenzong’s personal fate and the Song Dynasty’s historical turning point.

The Psychological Roots of Radicalism

Why did Shenzong, against overwhelming opposition, commit to Wang Anshi’s divisive reforms? The answer lies in the emperor’s profound psychological motivations—his burning need to legitimize his lineage and surpass his predecessors.

Shenzong was the son of Emperor Yingzong, who had inherited the throne from Emperor Renzong despite not being Renzong’s biological heir. This irregular succession bred lingering doubts about the legitimacy of Yingzong’s line. Court records reveal how Yingzong’s cousin Zong’e openly displayed contempt—once destroying dishes and beating a cook merely for serving the emperor lamb.

Yingzong’s troubled reign—marked by illness and the divisive “Ritual Controversy” over honoring his birth father—further weakened the family’s standing. For Shenzong, territorial expansion became the solution: only by achieving military glory could he prove his father’s line deserved the throne.

Wang Anshi alone offered the tools for this ambition. While conservatives like Han Qi and Sima Guang preached fiscal caution, Wang promised wealth and power through state intervention. Most crucially, he liberated Shenzong from the weight of tradition, declaring: “You yourself are the Ancestors!” This revolutionary idea—that a living emperor could redefine imperial norms—electrified the young ruler.

The War of Ideas: Printing Press Politics

Wang Anshi’s counterattack against critics showcased his political innovation. On March 4, 1070, his Refutation of Han Qi’s Memorial became what may have been history’s first mass-printed political polemic. Produced using the government’s printing resources and distributed nationwide through the courier system, this document:

– Declared the Green Sprouts Policy fundamentally sound
– Shifted blame for implementation problems to local officials
– Ordered punishment of negligent administrators

The technological advantage was overwhelming. While Han Qi in Hebei could only handwrite responses, Wang’s arguments reached every provincial capital within days. When the furious Han Qi demanded a public debate, Shenzong—having delegated authority to Wang—ignored him.

Silencing Dissent: The Erosion of Checks and Balances

Wang’s next targets were the censors and remonstrance officials—the traditional “voice of the court.” In a series of calculated moves from March to April 1070:

1. Li Chang’s Fall: The outspoken censor who criticized loan abuses was forced to “substantiate” his claims—violating the long-standing principle that censors could “speak from rumor.” His refusal led to demotion.
2. Fan Zhen’s Protest: The翰林学士 (Hanlin academic) repeatedly blocked problematic edicts through the银台司 (Yintai censorship office). When Shenzong bypassed this check, Fan resigned in protest—effectively dismantling a key oversight mechanism.
3. Lü Gongzhu’s Fabricated Crime: The censor-in-chief was falsely accused of slandering Han Qi with treasonous implications. Though the charge was later proven baseless, his removal cleared another obstacle.

By April’s end, nearly the entire remonstrance corps had been purged, replaced by Wang loyalists like the notorious Li Ding. The institutional safeguards painstakingly built by Song founders were crumbling.

“Three Fear Nots” and the Clash of Visions

The philosophical divide crystallized in Wang’s infamous declaration:

“Heaven’s portents need not be feared;
Our ancestors’ laws need not be followed;
The people’s complaints need not be heeded.”

For Sima Guang, these words epitomized everything wrong with Wang’s approach. In March 1070, as examiner for the prestigious馆职 (academicians’ examination), Sima crafted questions challenging these principles:

– Shouldn’t rulers heed natural disasters as heavenly warnings?
– Doesn’t discarding ancestral precedents invite chaos?
– Can governance ignore public opinion?

Yet Shenzong intervened—literally pasting over Sima’s questions—preventing this debate from reaching China’s future leaders.

Conclusion: The Weight of History

By mid-1070, even co-chancellors like曾公亮 (Zeng Gongliang) recognized the new reality. “The Emperor and Wang Anshi have become as one,” Zeng lamented. “This is Heaven’s will.”

For Sima Guang, watching his son司马康 (Sima Kang) graduate that spring offered little comfort. As dissent was systematically eliminated, he faced his own momentous choice—whether to remain in a government increasingly hostile to his values.

Shenzong’s fateful alliance with Wang Anshi reflected more than policy differences—it represented a fundamental shift in Chinese political philosophy. Where traditional Confucianism emphasized balance, restraint, and institutional checks, Wang’s vision prioritized transformative goals over process or consensus. The resulting tensions—between innovation and tradition, centralized power and distributed authority—would echo through Chinese history long after the Northern Song’s collapse.

In the end, neither Shenzong nor Wang Anshi could foresee how their bold experiment would contribute to factional strife that weakened the Song against northern threats. Yet their story remains powerfully relevant—a cautionary tale about the perils of radical reform without institutional guardrails, and the heavy price of silencing dissent.