Tariki and jiriki stand at opposite ends of the Pure Land spectrum, yet together they illuminate why Jōdo-shū leans so heavily on other-power.

Tariki (他力), literally “other-power,” hinges entirely on Amitābha’s vow. Chanting nembutsu (“Namu Amida Butsu”) isn’t a mere mantra but an act of surrender—trusting that infinite compassion already paves the way to the Western Paradise. Picture someone boarding a high-speed train rather than building the tracks themselves: all that’s needed is faith in the engineer.

Jiriki (自力), “self-power,” relies on rigorous self-cultivation—meditation, moral discipline, scriptural study. In many classical Mahāyāna schools this path shines bright: each practitioner rows upstream, striving for awakening through personal effort. But in an age often compared to the Buddhist “mappō” (degenerate Dharma), self-effort can feel like trying to light a fire in a rainstorm.

Jōdo-shū’s founder, Hōnen (1133–1212), witnessed how everyday people—farmers, merchants, even war-weary samurai—struggled to maintain the strict austerities of self-power. Offering tariki as a life raft wasn’t a shortcut so much as a lifeline. By invoking Amitābha’s name, ordinary folk gain access to liberation without having to master all the philosophical complexities or ascetic practices.

Today, the rise of nembutsu-recitation apps—think of guided chants popping up alongside mindfulness reminders—illustrates tarik­i’s timeless appeal. While jiriki remains respected in many Zen and Tibetan circles (and deserves its place), the Pure Land message reminds that sometimes genuine transformation comes not from fighting upstream, but from letting a boundless compassion carry the journey.