A Scholar’s Unyielding Convictions

On March 18, 1070, Sima Guang—the recently dismissed Deputy Military Commissioner who had never officially assumed office—returned to his duties as a Hanlin Academician and met Emperor Shenzong of Song in the Chongzheng Hall. This was their first face-to-face discussion since February 11, after weeks of exchanging written memorials and relying on eunuchs as intermediaries.

The emperor sighed and asked, “Your appointment as Deputy Military Commissioner hasn’t been revoked. I issued this decree specifically for you—why do you refuse to accept it?”

Sima Guang replied, “I know my limitations in serving the court, so I dare not accept the post. Refusing an appointment is a minor offense, but holding office without fulfilling its duties is a grave sin.”

Emperor Shenzong, perplexed, countered, “If you accept the position and perform well, you won’t be guilty of dereliction!”

Sima Guang shook his head. “The policies the court is implementing now are diametrically opposed to my principles. How could I avoid becoming a useless official?”

The Heart of the Conflict: Reform vs. Tradition

The emperor pressed further: “What policies do you oppose?”

This was a rhetorical question—Sima Guang had already detailed his objections in three of his six resignation petitions. Yet, given the chance to speak directly, he seized it: “I oppose the creation of the Finance Planning Commission, the excessive interference of inspection teams in local governance, and the Green Sprouts Loan policy, which harms the people. Every one of these contradicts my beliefs.”

Emperor Shenzong’s response stunned Sima Guang: “Many scholar-officials are loudly criticizing these measures. As my close advisor, you’re obliged to report such dissent to me.”

Was the emperor hoping Sima Guang would soften his stance? If Sima Guang had merely nodded or stayed silent, Shenzong could have interpreted it as acquiescence.

Instead, Sima Guang stood firm: “No. Before the Green Sprouts policy was even implemented, I debated Lü Huiqing in the imperial lectures, warning that it would provoke widespread opposition. At that time, most officials—let alone commoners—knew nothing of it. My opposition isn’t driven by public pressure.”

The Emperor’s Bargain and a Scholar’s Defiance

Undeterred, Shenzong tried again: “Your Deputy Military Commissioner’s edict remains in the palace. I’ll reissue it—will you accept this time?”

The emperor was practically pleading. How did Sima Guang respond?

“If Your Majesty acts on my counsel, I dare not refuse. If not, I would rather die upholding my principles than accept high office.”

Shenzong, exasperated, snapped, “Must you cling to empty ideals?”

To the emperor, Sima Guang’s refusal seemed like a quest for moral posturing over tangible benefits. But Sima Guang’s rebuttal cut deeper: “What official wouldn’t crave the prestige of becoming a chancellor or military commissioner? If I sought vanity, why not enjoy real power? I simply cannot accept rewards without merit.”

The debate ended in stalemate. Shenzong urged him to reconsider, but Sima Guang bowed and withdrew. Their ideological rift was irreconcilable.

The Philosophical Divide: Confucianism vs. Legalism

Sima Guang’s disillusionment with Shenzong ran deep. The emperor, though bold and shrewd, was impatient—a trait he shared with his reformist ally, Wang Anshi. A revealing anecdote circulated among scholars:

As a young prince, Shenzong once transcribed Han Feizi, a foundational Legalist text. When his tutor Sun Yong objected—”Its ruthless pragmatism contradicts Confucian virtue!”—Shenzong claimed he was merely expanding the palace library.

Why the secrecy? Legalism prioritized state power over welfare, advocating strict control and punitive laws. Confucianism, by contrast, sought balance between governance and morality. Shenzong’s fascination with Han Feizi hinted at his preference for expediency over principle—a path Sima Guang could never endorse.

“The Laws of Ancestors Must Not Be Altered”

As the emperor’s history lecturer, Sima Guang emphasized conservative reform through Zizhi Tongjian (Comprehensive Mirror to Aid in Government). During one lecture on Han-dynasty governance, he praised Chancellor Cao Shen for preserving his predecessor Xiao He’s policies, ensuring stability.

Shenzong challenged him: “Could any dynasty thrive by never adapting its laws?”

Sima Guang’s reply became infamous: “If the Xia, Shang, or Zhou dynasties had adhered to their founders’ laws, they might still rule today. When Emperor Wu of Han abandoned Gaozu’s policies, bandits overran the realm. Change breeds chaos—the laws of ancestors must not be altered.”

Critics later painted Sima Guang as a reactionary, but his argument was nuanced. He opposed reckless overhauls, not incremental adjustments. To him, core principles—light taxes, rest for the people, tolerance—were timeless. Yet his absolutist phrasing left him vulnerable.

The Reformist Counterattack

Wang Anshi’s protégé, Lü Huiqing, seized the opening. In his next lecture, he cited classical precedents for periodic reforms:

“The sage kings revised laws annually (Rites of Zhou), adjusted punishments every 30 years (Book of Documents), and upheld only eternal virtues like filial piety. Sima Guang is wrong—and his ‘ancestral laws’ dogma insults our reforms.”

Sima Guang parried deftly: “Those ‘changes’ reinforced tradition, like republishing old statutes. True reform is like repairing a house—you don’t demolish it unless rotten. And even then, you need master craftsmen and good timber.”

His metaphor revealed a conservative reformist, not a stubborn traditionalist. Yet Lü, cornered, resorted to personal attacks: “If you oppose the court, why not resign?”

Quoting Mencius—”Remonstrate thrice; if ignored, leave”—Lü shamed Sima Guang into admitting, “This is my failing.” Even Shenzong intervened: “Must debate turn so bitter?”

Legacy: A Clash of Visions

The confrontation exposed irreconcilable worldviews. Shenzong and Wang Anshi sought rapid transformation; Sima Guang advocated cautious stewardship. His warnings proved prescient—Lü Huiqing later betrayed Wang, and the New Policies’ excesses fueled factional strife that weakened the Song.

Yet Sima Guang’s rigidity also carried costs. His dismissal of flexible reform alienated pragmatists, while his moral absolutism sometimes blinded him to necessary adaptations.

In the end, both paths—revolutionary and evolutionary—held merit and peril. The tragedy lay not in their divergence, but in the inability to synthesize their strengths. As Sima Guang wrote to Wang Anshi:

“Our methods differ, but our goal is the same: your policies aim to benefit the people; my resistance seeks to save them. We harmonize without conforming.”

Whether such divergent roads could ever converge remains history’s unanswered question.