Non-Action and the Hidden Teaching
We continue with the next part: “Therefore the sage dwells in the affairs of non-action and practices the teaching that does not show itself in words.”
Patriarch Lü Chunyang explains *wuwei* here as acting by pure accord with what is so, without force. The sage does his work without clinging. If people come, he receives them; if they go, he does not hold them back. Coming and going are left free. Even while teaching and transforming beings, the sage does not advertise himself or make a display of his own merit. Like Heaven’s operation, his work is without noise or odor, without self-announcement.
The lecturer then begins several notes, starting with a dictionary-style explanation that *wuwei* means not forcing things, not imposing artificial action.
To influence people in the world, one should let them follow what is natural and not compel them. That is what *wuwei* means here. Whatever one does, one does it in the right way itself, not for reputation or profit. Once one cuts into action with ambition for name or gain, it becomes forced action.
The lecturer compares this with the Confucian idea of “respectfully rectifying oneself.” Good rule does not depend first on control or pressure, but on moral influence. A ruler may govern all under Heaven by his virtue while simply remaining in his proper place.
He then introduces the term *yanlu*—showing oneself off outwardly, displaying one’s talents, learning, or ability.
The lecturer brings in the *Diamond Sutra*: “If one sees me by form or seeks me by sound, that person walks a mistaken path and cannot see the Tathāgata.” To seek by outward forms or sounds is to let the mind run outward.
He then cites Confucian commentary to make the same point: if one relies only on spectacle, sound, ritual display, chanting, or public performance to transform people, that is a low-level method. Heaven nurtures all things without announcing itself. It does not ask for favors in return, does not boast, and does not make a noise about what it has done.
So the sage teaches in the same way: he influences without self-display.
So Patriarch Lü’s meaning is that *wuwei* means no coercion and no bondage. The sage does not tie people up by force. If they come, he receives them; if they leave, he does not compel them. There is no grasping, no control.
And “not speaking” here does not simply mean literal silence. It means not showing off one’s excellence. Though the sage teaches and transforms beings, he does so the way Heaven carries all things—without sound and without smell. That is why this is called “the teaching that does not advertise itself.”
The lecturer adds that a modern textbook on the *Dao De Jing* gives an explanation close to Lü Chunyang’s.
The lecturer repeats the point from the previous session: “not speaking” here means not exposing oneself, not putting oneself on display before the world as if to say, “See how great I am.”
Taken literally, the word could mean “not speaking,” but in this passage it has a special meaning. The context that follows—about producing without possessing, acting without relying, accomplishing without dwelling—shows that it points to not praising oneself, not flaunting oneself, not making one’s merit conspicuous.
He also explains the word “to show off” through dictionary notes: it means displaying one’s brilliance outwardly.
From this, he says, we understand that sages are sages because they are humble. Without humility one cannot become a sage.
He cites Confucius, who refused to call himself a sage or a man of perfect benevolence, though he tirelessly practiced and taught. He also cites the *Platform Sutra*, where the Sixth Patriarch avoids claiming status for himself. Even when plainly the rightful heir, he does not say, “I am the patriarch.”
This is exactly the spirit of “not speaking” in the *Dao De Jing*: one does not proclaim oneself to be a sage, a patriarch, or a great man.
The lecturer then cites Buddhist texts: to say “I have attained something” is ignorance; true wisdom is “no attainment.” If one clings to attainment, one remains within the wheel of birth and death. The bodhisattva’s way is precisely not to claim attainment.
He then turns back to Chinese historical usage and says that humility means lowering oneself. Those who are truly capable often call themselves “this unworthy person” or use lowly self-designations. This is not self-hatred but the moral habit of not exalting oneself.
He now explains the old royal self-designations: *gu* (“the solitary one”), *guaren* (“the one of little virtue”), and *bugu* (“the unworthy one”). Ancient rulers used such words to lower themselves.
He cites dictionary sources to show that these were standard humble forms of self-reference among feudal lords and kings. “Guaren,” for example, literally implies “a person of scant virtue.”
This becomes a rebuke to modern religious vanity. The lecturer says that when he hears people casually call themselves “living Buddha,” “illustrious master,” or “supreme master,” he feels deeply ashamed on their behalf. A real cultivator should be humble.
Humility, he says, is the root of moral life. So when the text says, “The sage dwells in the affairs of non-action and practices the teaching that does not advertise itself,” it means that the sage acts without force and remains modest in all he does, never displaying himself.
He then turns to the next lines of chapter 2: the ten thousand things arise, yet the sage does not reject them; he gives birth without possessing; acts without relying; accomplishes without dwelling in the accomplishment. These next lines, he says, explain what “the teaching that does not show itself” really means.
Patriarch Lü explains that Heaven and Earth generate and nourish the ten thousand things without ever claiming them as their own. Heaven does not speak, yet its virtue matches Heaven; Earth does not announce itself, yet its virtue matches Earth. So the sage, who teaches and transforms beings, likewise does not claim, “These are my people,” or “This is my work.”
He gives life but does not possess. He acts but does not rely on his own ability. He accomplishes merit but does not dwell in the merit. If one sits on one’s achievement and says, “This is my virtue,” then that is already not true virtue. Precisely because the sage does not dwell in his merit, it does not depart.
“Not departing,” he says, means abiding always—something not subject to arising and perishing. That closes the explanation of chapter 2.
He now turns to chapter 3, beginning with the line about not exalting the worthy.
The lecturer begins chapter 3 by explaining “not valuing rare goods.” People in the world prize pearls, jade, jewels, antiques, and other precious objects. Because they prize them, thieves arise.
He says that if something is treated as precious and difficult to obtain, people struggle over it. If it were treated like ordinary tile or stone, no one would risk so much for it. By contrast, the Dao and moral teaching cost nothing, and yet people do not want them.
He then gives a string of vivid modern examples. A child escapes kidnappers by convincing them his family has no money. An old woman covered in jewelry talks robbers into believing her ornaments are only cheap brass, and they lose interest and send her away.
The lesson is plain: if people think something has great value, they want it. If they think it has no value, they leave it alone. So one should not flaunt wealth, luxury watches, or expensive possessions. Showing them off only invites trouble.
He says jokingly that if thieves came to his own house, they would be disappointed. What he actually cares about is not material goods but the bag that contains his lecture books. Material possessions are all external things.
He then praises Laozi’s teaching here: “Do not prize rare goods, and the people will not become thieves; do not display desirable things, and the people’s hearts will not be thrown into disorder.” These, he says, are excellent golden words.
Money is not evil in itself, but if one chases profit without principle, one loses virtue. Wealth should be used rightly and in proper measure, not greedily.
Resuming chapter 3, he explains “do not show what is desirable, and the heart will not be disordered.” Patriarch Lü says that the world prizes profit and despises virtue. People chase sights, sounds, luxury, curiosities, rare birds, exotic animals, and strange objects. Once people see such things, desire arises; once desire arises, the heart becomes disordered; and once the heart is disordered, theft appears.
So the true method for stopping theft is to stop the stirring of desire. This is done by sage-teaching: reducing selfishness, reducing desires, and leading people gradually toward simplicity. When the heart is not disordered, virtue is honored and profit is put in its place.
He also glosses theft very simply: taking what should not be taken.
He expands the point with examples: corrupt officials, dishonest workmanship, cheating in trade—all are forms of desire taking over. To restrain desire is to restore the heart.
Then he says that becoming a sage is not nearly as impossible as people imagine. The key is what Zhou Dunyi called “one.” If one is without selfish desire, then in stillness one becomes empty and clear; in action one becomes upright and impartial. In that way one comes near sagehood.
He introduces Zhou Dunyi and related classical sources to explain this idea.
Zhou Dunyi asks whether sagehood can be learned and answers yes: the essential thing is “one” and sincerity. To be “one” here is to be without selfish desire. In stillness, the mind becomes empty and wisdom opens; in action, if one is straight and public-minded, one is free of selfishness.
The lecturer notes that some objected to this teaching. They argued that human beings naturally have emotions and desires, so how can sagehood mean “no desire”? Others even said that to reject desire altogether would go against human nature.
So the lecturer now takes up the question: what kind of “desire” is being rejected?
Patriarch Lü answers the objection by making a distinction. “No desire” does not mean the total absence of every kind of desire. It means the absence of selfish human desire. It does not mean the absence of Heaven-given right desire.
He compares this with Chan Buddhism’s “no thought”: it does not mean having no thoughts at all, but having no deviant thoughts. In the same way, “no desire” here means no selfish greed, not the destruction of proper and natural needs.
So students must distinguish carefully between selfish desire and right desire.
He then gives a broader principle: teachings are often expressed through one side of a pair, but the other side is implied. Heaven implies earth, good implies evil, and “do not create karma” usually means “do not create evil karma,” not “do nothing good.” So “no desire” means no greedy desire, not no proper desire.
He links Zhou Dunyi’s “no desire” with Mencius’s “few desires.” Mencius says there is no better way to nourish the mind than to reduce desires. To have few desires is, in this sense, to be “one.”
He closes this part by citing chapter 64 of the *Dao De Jing*: “The sage desires not to desire and does not prize rare goods.” The sage does not join the scramble for what everyone else wants. If people fight over precious objects, let them have them. If something is of no use to worldly greed, that is precisely what the sage can take up.
So sagehood does not mean deadness. It means having a proper and public-minded aspiration while refusing selfish greed.
Continuing the same topic, he says again that “desire” in these discussions mostly means greedy desire, not every desire whatsoever. Greed gives rise to many afflictions and becomes the root of suffering.
He cites Confucius: wealth and honor are desired by people, but if they are not obtained by the right way, one should not keep them. Wealth and rank gained unjustly are like floating clouds.
He also cites Buddhist material saying that the Dao is attained through freedom from desire, not through desire. One who cultivates should not allow craving to arise toward empty states and passing objects.
He explains that “no desire” can also be spoken of as “few desires and knowing contentment”: toward things not yet obtained, one does not generate excessive greed; toward what one already has, one does not complain that it is too little.
To show how greed disorders the heart, he tells a story from his youth. A man buying shaved ice heard a vendor trying to get rid of the remaining stock cheaply at sunset. The man thought he had found a bargain and bought far too much because it seemed profitable.
He drank cup after cup only because his greedy mind did not want to “waste” what he had gotten cheaply.
The man kept drinking until he was shaking and nearly collapsing, while onlookers simply watched for amusement. A Japanese-era policeman finally arrived, realized the man might die, and jolted him awake.
The lecturer says this is exactly what greed does: one sees something cheap and the greedy mind immediately appears. It is a small example, but it shows how desire can end in suffering.
The lecture now turns to the next lines of chapter 3: “Therefore the sage, in governing, empties their minds, fills their bellies, weakens their ambitions, and strengthens their bones.”
Patriarch Lü explains “emptying the mind” as what Buddhism would call emptiness: cutting off vain thoughts and returning to a clear, pure mind. But before one can empty the mind, one must “fill the belly”—that is, enrich inner virtue, not chase empty name and false profit.
To fill the belly, one must first weaken ambition, meaning greedy ambition for fame and gain. To weaken ambition, one must first strengthen the bones: become upright, steady, disciplined, and firmly rooted in the right path without selfish desire. In this order, strengthened integrity weakens greed; weakened greed allows inner virtue to grow; and filled inner virtue allows the mind to become empty and clear.
So the sage’s government aims to cut off delusive thinking, return people to clarity, reduce their greedy ambitions, and strengthen uprightness.
He now turns to “constantly keep the people without cunning knowledge and without desires, so that those who are clever do not dare act.” Patriarch Lü says that “knowledge” here does not mean true wisdom. There is saintly wisdom, worthy wisdom, true wisdom, and also crafty cleverness. In this chapter Laozi is criticizing crafty intelligence—the scheming mind that is full of tricks, fraud, and endless desires.
The lecturer begins some notes to distinguish this “crafty knowledge” from genuine wisdom.
The *Doctrine of the Mean* says that loving learning comes near to wisdom. So not all “knowing” is bad. The problem is cleverness used for deception.
He distinguishes wisdom from mere intellect. Wisdom can distinguish right from wrong; mere clever knowledge cannot. Crafty cleverness belongs to the scheming mind—always calculating, always inventing devices, and always feeding desire.
Therefore, when this chapter says to keep the people without “knowledge,” it means without manipulative cunning and without greed. If people are not filled with crafty cleverness and selfish desires, then the cunning mind has no room to act wildly.
That is where the lecturer stops for the evening.
This literal version consolidates the lecture’s English material into continuous notes, keeping close to the spoken sequence while preserving explanatory detail.