Emptying the Mind in Government
We now continue with chapter 3. The text says: “Do not exalt the worthy, and the people will not contend. 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. Therefore in the sage’s government he empties their minds, fills their bellies, weakens their ambitions, and strengthens their bones. He constantly keeps the people without cunning and without excessive desire, so that the clever do not dare to act.”
The teacher says tonight he wants to explain the final line of the chapter: if one can act according to the principle of *wuwei*, then there will be no disorder in the world.
Following Patriarch Lü Chunyang, “non-action” here means purely following what is natural. When the sage deals with affairs, what comes he receives; what goes he does not forcibly keep. He is free in coming and going, without the slightest bondage. Therefore he is able to obtain the Dao of non-action, and then there is no principle by which the world would fail to be governed. “Practice non-action and nothing will be left ungoverned.” Looking from antiquity to the present, Lü says the ruler who truly governed the world through *wuwei* was Shun.
The teacher now uses the *Collected Explanations on the Analects* to explain why Shun alone is singled out. Yao was certainly a sage, he says, but he could not fully count as obtaining this kind of *wuwei* in succession, because what he inherited did not come from a sage before him. Referring to the *Shiji*, he says that the earlier ruler was not upright, so Yao came to the throne not by a smooth transmission from one sage to another.
He then turns to Yu. Yu also tried to follow the model of Yao and Shun by not handing the realm directly to his son, but instead entrusting it to a worthy minister. Yet after Yu’s death, the feudal lords did not truly unite around that choice, and in the end Yu’s son took the throne.
So, the teacher says, Yao, Shun, and Yu were all sages, but only Shun stood between two sage-transmissions: he received from Yao, who was a sage, and handed on to Yu, who was also a sage. In that sense, Shun uniquely occupied the middle point of a fully sagely transmission. That is why the commentators say only Shun could truly be called a ruler who governed by *wuwei*.
He adds that this discussion is about emperors and political succession. In spiritual cultivation the situation is different: there can be many cases of true transmission. He gives examples from the Taoist and Confucian lines—Laozi, Confucius, Zengzi, Zisi—and says that if what comes from above is from a sage, and what is handed down below also reaches sages, then that too is a kind of natural, unobstructed transmission.
He says this is why Chan Buddhism often speaks this way as well: from patriarch to patriarch, if realization is truly transmitted and disciples genuinely attain something, one can speak of a kind of *wuwei* in transmission. But if a teacher has hundreds or thousands of students and not even half a one comes to anything, then this cannot really be called such a natural transmission.
So here *wuwei* does not mean laziness or doing nothing. It means a transmission or functioning that proceeds naturally, without strain, and actually bears fruit.
The teacher now broadens the discussion. He says that Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism all come close to one another on the question of *wuwei*. Citing a Taoist dictionary, he says Taoism takes Heaven’s way as natural, and therefore teaches that politics and human conduct should accord with natural principle. It values clarity, quietness, few desires, not contending with the world, and acting cautiously so as to stay far from disaster.
He then applies this in a strongly practical and moral way. To follow nature, he says, is not to mutilate life or act against natural process. He even brings up childbirth and abortion in that context, arguing that what truly follows nature should not casually interfere with life once it has begun.
On politics, he says ruling should accord with society and with the people’s life and growth. He even says Confucius’s ideas, properly understood, contain a kind of democratic spirit, though the rulers of his age did not accept them.
But he immediately warns that “following nature” must not be misunderstood. It means following the good direction of Heaven’s principle, not using “nature” as an excuse for bad conduct. One cannot say that theft, gambling, or indulgence are justified just because they feel natural. True *wuwei* still requires purity, few desires, non-contention, and careful conduct.
He then cites an immortality dictionary: “Heaven and earth are non-acting, and the ten thousand things are born. Sun and moon are non-acting, and the four seasons move. The sage is non-acting, and the world is governed.” But he says this still requires careful distinction.
When we talk about *wuwei*, we must ask: are we speaking inwardly or outwardly? Publicly or privately? Politically or spiritually? If one confuses these, one goes wrong.
After all, if *wuwei* meant simply doing nothing, then even speaking, teaching, or eating would all have to stop. So that cannot be right. Rather, in the highest sense, *wuwei* refers to the state of mind. Heaven does not strain, yet the seasons proceed. Earth does not force itself, yet the myriad beings grow. If a person can reach that kind of non-forcing in the heart, then the great Dao is naturally accomplished.
So the teacher stresses again that *wuwei* is primarily about inner condition, not mere outward inactivity.
To keep people from misunderstanding, he gives another example. He says he recently heard a preacher on television criticize Confucius’s teaching on filial piety, claiming that if filial obedience means always complying, then a son would have to buy drugs for an addicted father or give gambling money to a gambling parent. The teacher says this is a foolish reading.
Confucius, he says, was speaking of obedience in the good and proper direction. If parents do wrong, the child should indeed remonstrate. But that correction must be gentle and respectful, not rude or combative. If the parents do not listen, one stops for the moment and tries again when their anger has passed. This is what the classics mean by laboring without resentment.
The point of the example is that one must understand a word within its context. The same term can carry different meanings in different places. Just as “filial obedience” must not be read simplistically, so “*wuwei*” must also be understood from the lines above and below it. One phrase cannot be torn out of context and attacked.
With that, he says the explanation of chapter 3 is complete.
Now he enters chapter 4. Patriarch Lü’s explanation begins: “The Dao is empty, yet in use it is never filled up.” The teacher explains that in old sources the character for “hollow” can also be read as “empty” or “void,” much like the Buddhist sense of emptiness. The word translated “perhaps” here is only a grammatical particle. “Not full” means inexhaustible.
So the Dao-body is empty, but its functioning fills heaven, earth, and the ten thousand things. He compares this with the *Qingjing Jing*: the Great Dao gives birth to heaven and earth, moves the sun and moon, and nourishes the ten thousand beings.
He also pauses over the phrase “the Dao has no feelings.” This does not mean cold-heartedness. It means the Dao does not operate through human passions like joy, anger, sorrow, and craving. Yet it still moves sun and moon, day and night, spring and autumn without ever ceasing. It is nameless, yet it perpetually nourishes all things.
The next line says the Dao is deep, “like the ancestor of the ten thousand things.” Patriarch Lü explains that Dao is the source from which all things begin.
Speaking outwardly, the teacher says, the true emptiness of the cosmos gives rise to the ten thousand things, and so Dao is the ancestor of the ten thousand things. Speaking inwardly, the true emptiness of our own nature gives rise to the myriad dharmas, and so Dao is also the ancestor of all teachings and all states of mind.
The substance of the universe is like the depth of the sea—too deep to measure. Nothing is born apart from Dao. Yet if one simply says “Dao is the ancestor of all things” too directly, one risks turning it into a fixed, visible thing. Laozi therefore uses language like “seems like” rather than fixing it too heavily in names and forms. The real Dao remains formless, nameless, and beyond grasp.
He then explains the line “Still and clear, as if it were there. I do not know whose child it is; it seems prior to the Lord.” The word *zhan* means clear and still, like standing water. He quotes the classical image that one cannot see one’s reflection properly in flowing water, but can in still water.
So the heart must become like still water. If thoughts keep moving, it is like ripples in water: one cannot see one’s true face clearly. When the mind reaches stillness, deluded thoughts stop moving.
From there he returns to Laozi’s line: “I do not know whose child it is.” That means the source of Dao cannot be traced further back. “Prior to the Lord” means even earlier than the divine ruler or highest god imagined by people. Dao is before all such names.
He says that unless one reaches the Buddha’s level, one cannot truly know the ultimate origin of Dao. He compares this with the universe itself: even modern science cannot fully grasp how vast it really is. So this scripture is very deep, and one must study it slowly.
The next phrase is “Blunt its sharpness; untangle its knots.” Patriarch Lü explains this morally. Among cultivators, he says, some may have “Dao” but not “virtue”: they understand many principles, yet do not yield to others. They rely on their own cleverness, press people with harsh force, stir up disputes, and speak as sharply as a blade.
If such sharpness is not blunted, it leads to self-satisfaction and self-fullness. So to “blunt the sharpness” means hiding that cutting edge, restraining the aggressive urge always to win arguments. Then disputes naturally dissolve. To “untangle the knots” means calming the mind so it is no longer agitated or combative.
Only one who has both Dao and virtue can really do this. Mere doctrinal knowledge without moral softness is not enough.
The next line is “Soften its light, become one with its dust.” Patriarch Lü says that “softening its light” means harmonizing all forms of spiritual brightness, while “becoming one with its dust” means entering the ordinary, dusty world without being stained by it—like a lotus growing in mud but remaining clean.
He then explains this through what he calls the “seventeen lights.” Some of this is difficult because the OCR is damaged, but the overall meaning is clear. The first is the original spiritual light of one’s own nature—the Taoist “one spirit,” comparable to what Buddhists call the innate divine light. When one reaches a mind without fixed attachment, this light appears.
Another part is the light of the ten good deeds. He then lists the Taoist ten goods: honoring parents, serving worthy teachers, loving living beings, being patient and accommodating, accepting correction, sacrificing oneself to save others, protecting life and loving creatures, repairing roads and doing public good, benefiting people and things, and teaching and transforming others. These are practical moral lights that support cultivation.
The teacher says that if these lights are present, they can restrain the “ten demons” that obstruct cultivation. In that case, attaining the Dao is not so difficult.
The teacher now clarifies a key point: “The Great Dao has no emotions” does **not** mean being without feeling like wood or stone. Rather, it means emotions are present in their proper measure, without being ruled by selfish passion.
When it is time to rejoice, one rejoices. When it is time to be angry, one may be angry, but with loving intention and proper restraint. When it is time to grieve, one grieves—but “grieves without injuring the heart.” For example, when parents die, sorrow is natural, but one must still handle affairs properly and not collapse into useless damage.
Likewise, there is a right kind of caution—fear of making mistakes in one’s cultivation—but not fearful craving for fame and profit. There is a proper “love,” meaning value and concern, but not greedy grasping. There is a proper “dislike,” but it should turn into compassion for the person, not hatred of the person.
So “Dao is without emotion” means transcending bondage to the seven passions, not becoming inhuman. This is part of the seventeen lights that can overcome the ten demonic obstacles of cultivation.
The lecture then revisits “soften the light and become one with the dust,” and says there are several notes under Patriarch Lü’s explanation. The first is the relation between the seventeen lights and the ten demons.
Drawing from the *Lingbao Dafa*, the teacher lists the Taoist ten demons in rough form. Because the OCR is damaged, some names are uncertain, but the sequence is clear enough: heavenly demon, earthly demon, human demon, ghost demon, obstructing or household demon, dangerous or chaotic demon, sickness demon, goblin or spirit demon, and visionary demon, among others.
He gives examples. Heavenly demons are trials sent by Heaven to test whether one’s resolve is firm. Earthly demons include disasters like wind, flood, and earthquake. Human demons draw people into lust, gambling, or bad paths. Household demons are obstructing family members who hinder cultivation. There are demons of dream-confusion, karmic illness, animal or tree spirits, and false meditative visions in which one thinks one sees Buddhas, heavens, or hells without true control or realization.
If these are not recognized and restrained, cultivation becomes very difficult. That is why the seventeen lights matter.
The second note explains this line through the Confucian principle of *shu*—putting oneself in another’s place, or “extending oneself to others.”
The teacher quotes the *Analects*: when Zigong asked whether there is a single word one can practice for life, Confucius replied, “Perhaps *shu*.” But, the teacher says, this is not merely saying nice things with the mouth. It means using one’s own body and conduct as the measure. One first crosses oneself over, then helps cross others over.
Quoting Huang Kan and Zhu Xi, he explains: loyalty (*zhong*) means doing one’s utmost oneself; *shu* means extending that to others. Therefore one cannot truly practice *shu* without first having *zhong*. If you do not embody it yourself, you are not qualified to speak as though you are leading others across.
So in this line of the *Dao De Jing*, “soften the light and become one with the dust” also carries the sense of putting oneself together with others and not standing above them arrogantly.
The third note brings in Buddhism. What Confucianism calls loyalty and reciprocity, Buddhism calls benefiting oneself and benefiting others, or awakening oneself and awakening others.
The teacher says these are really parallel in meaning. Whether one says “extend yourself to others,” “benefit self and others,” or “soften the light and join the dust,” the spirit is the same: one does not cling to private purity, but uses one’s own cultivation to help others.
The wording differs across traditions, but the underlying intention is one.
The fourth note says the Dao does not discriminate against the poor, the lowly, the ignorant, the sick, or even bad people. The teacher gives Buddhist examples: the Buddha transformed despised and impure people, even those others looked down on severely. Therefore, he says, it is a mistake for religious people to say they will only save respectable or “clean” persons.
He makes the point sharply: converting good people is only a small merit. Transforming evil people is the greater merit, because they are the ones in urgent need. He compares this to medicine: when a doctor sees patients, the emergency cases come first.
To support this, he cites striking Chan sayings such as “the Dao is in excrement and urine” and Yunmen’s reply “a dried shit-stick” when asked what Buddha is. The point is not vulgarity for its own sake. It is that the Way is not absent from filth, and that the Buddha’s teaching exists to sweep away delusion and impurity, just as one cleans filth away.
So if one walks the bodhisattva path, one must awaken oneself and awaken others. One must be able to move among bad people without becoming stained by them—like the lotus growing in mud. The teacher even applies this to his own life, saying that if one mingles with flawed people in order to transform them, one must be careful not to be infected by their habits.
If one only wants personal purity and refuses the dusty world, then one may preserve oneself, but one cannot transform living beings. With that, he says the explanation here is complete, and next time the lecture will move on to chapter 5.
This literal version consolidates the lecture’s English material into continuous notes, keeping close to the spoken sequence while preserving explanatory detail.