Ise Jingu: Japan’s Sacred Shrine Rebuilt Every 20 Years for 1,300 Years

Ise Jingu, Japan’s most revered Shinto shrine, is entering its 63rd rebuilding cycle in a tradition that has continued for more than 1,300 years. Publicly visible this year, the project will recreate all 125 shrine buildings and more than 1,500 ritual garments and objects to exact, time-honored specifications over roughly nine years. Estimated to cost about $390 million, the reconstruction mobilizes Japan’s finest carpenters, woodcutters and artisans, who labor to produce structures that are intended to endure only for a generation before the cycle begins again. The renewed complex will host 33 accompanying ceremonies and festivals, culminating in a 2033 ritual that transfers the presiding deity to the new sanctuary. The inner shrine is dedicated to Amaterasu, the sun goddess, whose presence anchors a Shinto tradition that blends devotion with community and landscape.

Deep in the forests of the Japanese Alps, Shinto priests monitor woodsmen dressed in ceremonial white as they chop two ancient cypress trees. The ritual harvesting of this timber is the opening act of the rebuilding, a display that marks the start of a process that has unfolded every two decades since the late 7th century. The moment the wood is felled, the shrines are destined to be reconstituted anew; the work is a monumental test of craftsmanship, memory and faith in a cycle that is both a renewal and a reminder of impermanence. After the cedar and cypress are prepared, dozens of master carpenters and specialists descend on Ise to shape rails, joinery and thatch with techniques handed down through generations. The call-and-response rhythm of construction—the head carpenter declaring progress, the team answering with precision—echoes through the forest as the logs are slid toward the Isuzu River to begin their journey to the sacred precinct.

Scholars note that the cycle’s endurance is exceptional in a country where many shrines have stopped regular rebuilding. The first documented reconstruction at Ise dates to 690, during the reign of Empress Jitō, according to Noboru Okada, a Kogakkan University historian. The project is intended to produce an identical structure each time, with the same four core elements and the same craftsmanship methods preserved for centuries. As work advances, all 125 buildings will be razed and rebuilt in the same footprint, while 33 accompanying festivals unfold over the course of the cycle, culminating in the 2033 transfer rite. Ise’s central act remains the annual reaffirmation of the shrine’s relationship with the mountains, forests and Isuzu River—an intertwining of place, ritual, and memory that many locals describe as sacred and deeply personal.

Yukio Lippit, a Harvard art-history professor, emphasizes that Ise’s endurance rests on attrition and historical contingency. “Ise is unique because of attrition—renewal cycles are difficult to maintain—and because of the vagaries of history; many other shrines that once underwent regular rebuilding have stopped doing so,” he said. The shrine’s revival cadence has survived civil wars in the 15th and 16th centuries and the disruption of World War II, but it has not been immune to broader social changes.

On a recent rainy day, priests in starched robes beat drums and marched to the inner shrines for prayers marking the official start of a new rebuilding phase. The ceremony signals the moment when the trees must be felled and carried to the shrine; the event is sometimes described as a horizon of the sacred, a boundary between forest and sanctuary. In this moment, the ritual emphasizes that cutting the trees is performed only after permission from mountain deities, a reminder that the rebuilding is as much about spiritual governance as it is about timber and carpentry. The tree-cutting is followed by a meticulous sequence: the wood is wrapped in white cloth and reed mats, then transported by boat and on foot to the construction sites where it will begin a new life as part of the roofs, columns and beams of the rebuilt sanctuary.

The process is intimate, communal and technically exacting. Ten carpenters’ studios operate in permanent residence at Ise, with additional teams called in as needed. The reed thatch for the roofs is grown specifically to length—often exceeding two meters—and the cypress groves that supply the core timber are tended across generations, with family members assuming responsibility long after a single participant’s life. In one telling moment, Soju Ikeda, who runs a local lumber company and chairs a preservation society for traditional tree-felling skills, described the feeling of watching two-ton logs dragged through the Isuzu River: “You take a moment to appreciate that trees are living beings and engrave that feeling into your heart.”

The reconstruction’s scale is matched by its reverence for continuity. Beyond the timber and textiles, the cycle hinges on miscanthus reed thatch and other materials prepared years in advance; the goal is fidelity of form and spirit rather than novelty. The shrine’s inner sanctum remains off-limits to most visitors, but thousands gather to witness the public rites that accompany the rebuild. The sense of mystery is frequently noted by visitors, who describe a physiological shift—breath and wind changing as they cross the bridge into the sacred precinct and the forest’s quiet settles around them. Local voices reflect a blend of reverence and everyday life: a sake shopkeeper says the crossing of the bridge changes her breathing and quiets the world’s noise, a reminder that Ise is as much a social and cultural anchor as it is a religious site.

The cycle’s public face is complemented by personal narratives. A woodcutter who has participated in tree-felling ceremonies since his youth recalls the moment the ancient cypresses are chosen and felled; another observer speaks of hearing the trees “cry” as the axes bite into their ancient core, a sound that etches itself into memory. For many involved, the rebuilding is not a gesture of nostalgia but a commitment to ensuring the shrine remains relevant to future generations while preserving a body of skill that has survived through dynasties.

As millions of pilgrims continue to visit annually, Ise Jingu remains a living laboratory of tradition in a country facing population shifts and urbanization. While Shinto shrines across Japan have declined in number in recent decades, Ise’s cycle endures as a defining ritual of cultural identity, offering a tangible link between past and present—between the deities believed to inhabit natural spaces and the people who care for the timber, the cloth, the thatch, and the ceremonies that accompany them. For visitors and practitioners alike, the rebuilding is not merely an architectural project but a meditation on time, memory and the possibility of renewal that can endure for a thousand years and beyond.