Taoism

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When encountering Taoist philosophy for the first time, it is easy to respond with incredulity: ‘You can’t be serious!’  It would seem that the Taoists of antiquity encountered the same response, and in this chapter we are told that our response to hearing about the Tao tells us something about the kind of person we are:

When a superior man hears of the Tao,
he immediately begins to embody it.
When an average man hears of the Tao,
he half believes it, half doubts it.
When a foolish man hears of the Tao,
he laughs out loud.
If he didn’t laugh,
it wouldn’t be the Tao.

Who is it that is ‘superior’? Is it the person that others look up to? And who is it that is ‘foolish’? Is it the person that others disregard?  Or is this description challenging our perception of what greatness really means?

One of the core messages of the Tao Te Ching is that true wisdom is hidden, and easily missed by most people.  The person who is really ‘superior’ is not the one who has power or charisma or charm, but the one who recognises this hidden wisdom and finds it more valuable than anything the world has to offer.  In the eyes of people who are blind to the ways of Tao, it seems absurd and foolish!  So the author goes on to say:

Thus it is said:
The path into the light seems dark,
the path forward seems to go back,
the direct path seems long,
true power seems weak,
true purity seems tarnished,
true steadfastness seems changeable,
true clarity seems obscure,
the greatest art seems unsophisticated,
the greatest love seems indifferent,
the greatest wisdom seems childish.

I do sometimes worry that I will drive away all my readers by drawing lines between my study of the Tao and my Christian faith.  I will try not to overdo it!  But in this chapter, the correlation is unavoidable.  If this notion is central to Taoism, it is equally so in Jewish and Christian thought (or at least, it used to be).  If I began to catalogue examples, it could easily fill a book!  Noah was foolish for building a boat in the desert; Abraham was foolish for leaving his home in Ur; the Hebrews became the ‘chosen people’ specifically because of their weakness; David became king because he was the smallest of his brothers; Israel went into exile because it trusted the military strength of its allies; finally, Jesus overcame the strength and wisdom of the world by choosing the long, dark, tarnished, weak way of the cross.  Many Christians will reject the notion of Tao out of hand, and many western Taoists will do the same with the Bible, but I am convinced that, with an open mind, we find this central truth making itself known to everyone who is willing to accept it.

The often-maligned Paul summarised this when he wrote that ‘God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. He chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things—and the things that are not—to nullify the things that are’.  If he had had opportunity to travel to China, I am quite sure that he would have rejoiced to know that this wisdom was being there as well.  ’He chose … the things that are not’; or, as this chapter concludes,

The Tao is nowhere to be found.
Yet it nourishes and completes all things.

And so the ‘superior’ person who embodies the Tao remains invisible, foolish in the eyes of the world.  And yet, being invisible, is able to nourish, support, and love.  Is that person you?  Is it me?

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Most of us like to think that we are forward-thinking, modern people.  Technology progresses; new territories are explored; old superstitions are put to rest.  Onward and upward… right?

Returning is the movement of the Tao.
Yielding is the way of the Tao.

Every accomplishment is followed by rest.  Buildings crumble over time.  The most brilliant minds still succumb to dementia, and the strongest bodies suffer infirmity with age.

Is that a depressing truth, best ignored?  Should we follow Dylan Thomas and ‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light’?  Or is it a relief?

I find myself returning (no pun intended!) to the creation story in Genesis, and the famous quote: ‘for dust you are 
and to dust you will return’.  Death was an inevitable result of eating the forbidden fruit in the garden.  From a Taoist perspective, this story makes perfect sense:  at first, humanity existed in perfect harmony with nature, yielding to the Way.  But they chose a different way instead, wanting to dominate and master the world.

Now, the Tao works in and through every atom of the universe.  Fighting against it is like swimming up a strong river.  You can do it for a time, but sooner or later you will tire, while the river continues just the same.  In death, each one of us is forced to admit that we are not, in fact, God.  And in that admission, we return to the harmony of Tao.

All things are born of being.
Being is born of non-being.

There’s nothing made that will last forever.  We can enjoy the things around us:  food and drink, music and art, family and friends.  But we should also turn our attention to the ‘uncreated’, the Tao, because that is what remains.  When we forget this, we can delude ourselves into thinking that we (or our society, our technology, our way of life) will last forever.  But if we keep it in mind, we can let things come and go, which is to say that we can stop trying to play God.  If we began to take even the tiniest baby-steps along that Way, how might our lives be different?  Maybe we could come just a little bit closer to the ‘garden’ that we left so long ago.

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This week’s chapter is in two parts.  The first is about balance, and the second is about humility.  Can you see how they might be related?

In harmony with the Tao,
the sky is clear and spacious,
the earth is solid and full,
all creature flourish together,
content with the way they are,
endlessly repeating themselves, endlessly renewed.

When man interferes with the Tao,
the sky becomes filthy,
the earth becomes depleted,
the equilibrium crumbles,
creatures become extinct.

For an ancient philosophy, Taoism certainly has a good grasp of ecology!  This message of balance has never been more relevant than it is today, when we are only just beginning to come to terms with the effects which our technological advances are having on our habitat.  When we try to tinker or disrupt nature, we risk upsetting delicate balances, and consequences for ourselves and our surroundings are often impossible to predict.

It’s all well and good to talk about the global environment, but it’s more difficult to look first at our own lives.  We all participate in mental, emotional and physical ‘ecosystems’: within ourselves, and between our families, friends, and communities.  We can each take on the responsibility for our own lives which we can so easily get angry at governmental and business leaders for neglecting.

Is the ‘sky’ of our mind ‘clear and spacious’, or is it filthy with anger, desire, and selfishness?  Is the ‘earth’ of our home ‘solid and full’, welcoming and hospitable, where people enjoy each other’s company?  Or is it depleted of life, where people from frequent arguments to the mental distractions of televisions, computers and ipods?  Does our daily routine and social interaction renew and sustain us, or does it threaten to destroy us?

I could draw many more examples, but this is a start.  Are you used to asking yourself these kinds of questions?  Are you mindful of your personal and communal equilibria?

The Master views the parts with compassion,
because he understands the whole.
His constant practice is humility.
He doesn’t glitter like a jewel
but lets himself be shaped by the Tao,
as rugged and common as stone.

In the context of our western society, the ‘glittering jewel’ is like the ideal of technological progress, the philosophy which believes that human cleverness and ingenuity can reshape our world (and ourselves) to our own liking.  Instead of seeing themselves as actors in the drama of history, people who hold this view tend to see themselves as the playwrights.

The Taoists saw that this thinking is based on human pride.  As a Christian, I see the same contrast in the Genesis creation story, where the first people ruin the natural harmony by trying to ‘be like God’.  When we desire  to ‘glitter like a jewel’, we inevitably cause destruction.

Unlike Adam and Eve, the Taoist rejects this destructive impulse to control and dominate.  Instead of reshaping the environment, he ‘lets himself be shaped’.  It’s not a recipe for stardom.  By choosing that path we will become ‘rugged and common’, humble but useful.  Rather than pillaging our environment, we can become part of it, sharing its life and contributing to the common good.

Which way will you choose?